


Sublimation

by Diomedes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Bucky's at least dealing with his, Civil War Fix-It, Enemies to sex buddies to ?, I promise, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, M/M, No one falls in love, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony's fine guys, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 55,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diomedes/pseuds/Diomedes
Summary: Four months after the Accords fiasco Steve and Tony start having hate sex. This is the story of how they stop.Sublimation is not transmutation. It is a change in state, not a shift in nature.





	1. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mistakes are made.  
>  _It’s nearly surreal to be touching Tony in a way that doesn’t hurt either of them but God, it’s better, so much better than being alone in this place that no longer feels like home._

It shouldn’t be Stark.  
  
If Steve has to have someone pressed up against the wall, hands buried under shirtsleeves desperately searching for skin, it should be someone he loves, someone he likes. Someone at the very least who likes _him_. It should be Sharon or Peggy. Or Nat or Bucky if they’d have him, and if Steve dared. 

But it isn’t and instead of a lover’s caress he gets an elbow to the ribs, and instead of sweet nothings he gets uncharacteristic silence, and instead of passion or love (or friendship or camaraderie), he gets this and it’s not fair or right it’s -  
  
Just _Stark_ , really. _What were you expecting?_  
  
Steve has to prevent himself from sinking his teeth into collarbone in frustration because none of this was _supposed to be_. They were Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. They were supposed to be able to work this out. To say _sorry_ and forgive and forget. They were never meant to break in the first place. (Steve was supposed to die in the ice. Tony was born to burn from the inside out.)  
  
Steve can see the evidence of their (his) failure shining out of Stark’s eyes and Stark huffs out a laugh of victory when Steve has to violently wrench his gaze away. He finds himself staring at the shield lying on the couch. This morning he found it bundled in a burlap bag and resting against his door. It used to be Captain America’s shield. It’s corrupted now; dark flecks of long-dried blood spill across the white star and scorch marks from repulsors have obliterated the paint in places. The scour marks from T’challa’s claws mar the perfect geometry, throwing off its balance. There’s a shallow dent in the rim where vibranium met starkium and won.  
  
It's a taunt. Stark could have fixed it if he wanted to. Instead he gave it back to Steve, a brutal reminder of what happens to obsolete weapons now out of fashion. Steve wasn’t going to let Stark hand it over as if it were just another possession that didn’t mean anything to either of them. Anger sustains their relationship these days. Their interactions are built around accusations, feints, and appeals. If they stopped that would mean that what happened between them was history, set in stone. Too late to change. Steve had marched straight into Stark’s office and -   

It turned into this.

Flesh hits drywall hard enough to _clack_ and Stark stops grinning. Steve shouldn’t be angry but it shouldn’t be Stark, so somehow that all balances out.

Stark chokes back a snigger and Steve has to stop himself from digging fingers into shoulders. He takes his anger out on the shirt buttons instead. Stark’s dark head knocks against the wall under the assault and when he opens his mouth Steve just knows something poisonous is about to come tumbling out. That’s all Stark has left for him anymore and today with the dull glare of the shield behind him, Steve just _can’t_. He moves to cover Stark’s mouth with his own and then thinks better of it. He sinks his teeth into the cords of the Stark’s throat instead so that all he manages to exhale is a hiss.    
  
The sound goes straight to Steve’s groin. His body is much less conflicted about Stark than his mind. Stark's the first person, the first solid _warmth_ Steve has felt in months and there’s still too much of the scrappy kid he used to be to not take what he can get. Blood pools in his groin under his sweats and he rocks himself unconsciously into Stark’s hip before he realizes what he’s doing.  
  
Stark stops moving and it takes Steve a few seconds to notice. He pulls back to stare down. He’s larger than Stark and has him crowded against the burgundy wall of his own office but it’s Steve who’s fighting to even his breathing as adrenaline floods his veins in confused violence or lust. He can’t seem to do anything about the trembling of his arms.  
  
Stark is standing unnaturally still, impervious to Steve’s turmoil. He looks… smaller, warmer; more human than the untouchable mogul that has been ruling Steve’s life since his return. Stark’s just staring at him, brown eyes dark and wide and confused, and for once Steve can’t find a hint of dismissal or condemnation. He’s not looking at Steve like he’s a problem or a threat but like a puzzle Stark can’t quite figure out. There’s nothing guarded in his expression just uncertainty mingled with curiosity.  
  
Stark looking at him without hostility didn’t used to be rare and suddenly Steve needs more. He needs to recapture something of _Tony_ and not of _Stark_. He runs his lips lightly across the other man’s collarbone and the skin under his mouth shivers. _Tony’s ticklish_ , his mind remembers from some dark box labelled _before._  Then he gathers his courage and seals his mouth over Stark’s.  
  
Tony tastes warm and bitter. Like coffee. Like he would have a lifetime ago, before everything went sideways.  
  
Steve has only ever kissed a handful of women and never a man so his technique might be rusty but it really doesn’t matter because Tony comes back online all at once. He wrests control back because Tony is Tony, but something instinctive in Steve fights the handover anyway.    
  
“Hands,” Tony bites out when they break for air which isn’t the order Steve thought was coming next.  
  
He realizes he has Stark’s hands pinned to the wall, palms aimed back and away so non-existent repulsors can’t fire. Steve drops his wrists like they burn. He wants to mumble sorry but the word sticks in his throat. Apologies are never just apologies between them.     
  
Fortunately, Tony has never waited for Steve to catch up before forging ahead. Wrists free, he snakes one hand between them to dip under the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. He palms Steve through his boxers and Steve lurches forward, driving himself into the pressure. Anything feels better than repetitive drive of his own hand.  
  
“Easy, Rogers,” Tony says, not unkindly, but the use of his last name almost throws Steve out of whatever uneasy peace he’s made with the situation.  
  
Tony is opening his own belt one-handedly with impressive dexterity but Steve can’t wait. The few experiences he’s had with men were in places and times where speed was a necessity. He knocks Tony’s hand out of the way and undoes the man’s trousers himself before shoving his own sweatpants and boxers down around his thighs. He lines their lengths up as best he can and strokes.  
  
A frisson of pleasure runs through Steve but watching a similar response ripple across Stark’s face might be better. It’s not an altruistic joy. It’s competitive at best - running right up to the edge of vindictive. C _aptain America_ would never feel such a thing but Steve isn't him anymore. He's just Steve Rogers now and Steve Rogers wants to claw his way through Stark to Tony and this seems as good a way as any. Every instinct in him screams at him to get them both off as quickly as possible but he keeps his strokes languid and even until the last of tension in Stark’s shoulders bleeds out.  
  
It’s nearly surreal to be touching Tony in a way that doesn’t hurt either of them but _God_ , it’s better, so much better than being alone in this place that no longer feels like home. Steve starts speeding up, the raw pleasure a prelude to -  
  
Tony catches Steve’s wrist and despite the disparity in strength Steve lets him. Tony slowly readjusts them, lets Steve press into his hip again, then spits into his hand and coats Steve’s erection as best he can. Then Steve gets with the program. He rubs himself off on Tony at a punishing pace as Tony pours encouragement into his ears. His voice is the last thing Steve wants to hear. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend that it’s anyone else’s skin. He knows this will ruin them, he knows he started it. Part of him wants to tell Tony to _shut up_ but years of associating sex with silence has him biting his tongue.  
  
In the end it doesn’t matter that it’s Stark. Steve breaks. He takes what he can, what Stark has offered. Steve doesn’t bother with a warning: he’s silent as the grave as he paints Tony’s already slick skin and already ruined shirt.  
  
He breathes in and feels the cloud of lust receding. When he raises his head Tony’s studying him with guarded eyes but Steve’s gaze is drawn magnetically to the remains of scar tissue marring his chest. _Tony is Iron Man_. It’s a fantastic contradiction insomuch as Steve has never had trouble understanding Iron Man and has absolutely no idea what to do with Tony Stark.

The man tries to pick himself off the wall and Steve doesn’t let him. His hand smothers the scar across Tony’s heart as he pushes Stark back.  
  
Wrong move.  
  
A snarl bursts out of Tony and Steve snatches his hand back at the tone even if the curses pass him by. It probably merits another  _I'm sorry._ Steve can only hope that his hands stroking loose and soothing at Stark's sides is interpreted as the apology he can't bring himself to say.  
  
It shouldn’t be Tony but goddamn it if Steve won’t finish the job. He’s nowhere near as experienced as Stark so he just jerks Tony off, scraping his own fluids off Stark’s abdomen to use as lubrication. Tony lets his head fall backward against the wall and finally stops talking but the sharp breaths he takes are still too loud for Steve’s comfort. He knows it’s not the forties but anything not furtive and quick still seems decadent and inefficient. It’s not Stark’s fault he grew up in different time but it’s yet another incompatibility. When Steve did this last it was with -  
  
His mind stumbles over the name, drags him back to the present instead.  
  
Tony comes with his eyes closed, breath stuttering. Steve studies his face. There should be revelation. Instead he learns nothing.    
  
An eternity passes in the space of minutes, momentous in its hollowness.  
  
Tony’s eyes are still closed, no more in a rush to face this new reality than Steve is. When he finally speaks his voice is desperate and annoyed in equal measure, like he’s betraying himself by having to ask. “Why?”  
  
Steve doesn’t know how to answer. Frustration is already creeping back, afterglow cut short because nothing is different. _Tony is still Stark is still Iron Man_ and they’re still stuck. The shield on the couch is still damaged. Tony must have known this wouldn’t help them. Maybe he just went along with it to prove that point to Steve.  
  
“Forget it,” Steve says, pulling his boxers and sweatpants back over his hips. He feels the wet patches on his legs rub themselves into the material.  
  
Stark reopens his eyes and for a moment he’s still Tony. He’s not the pristine playboy darling he plays for the media or the uncaring, egotistical genius that Steve has occasionally accused him of being. The red mark just north of his collarbone serves as a reminder of his fragility; physical proof that Steve can still affect the world around him.  
  
Then Stark shakes his head in disbelief and between breaths Tony disappears. He fixes his clothing as best he can and saunters over to the drinks cart, all artifice as opposed to grace. He pours himself a finger of scotch, thinks better of it, and adds a second as he leans against the side table. He doesn’t offer Steve one. “So is this going to be a regular thing with you?”  
  
“No.” The answer is immediate. It had no right to be Stark and it occurs to Steve then that it had no right to be him for Tony either. “What about Pepper?”  
  
Stark’s eyes turn glassy. Steve can’t tell if it’s anger or regret. “What about her?”  
  
Steve never learned what happened with the two of them. He never asked and Stark’s not going to tell.  
  
“Forget it,” Steve says, voice hoarse. “This - It won’t happen again.”  
  
Stark downs his drink in a single swallow before turning and dropping his glass back in the cart. It hits the tray with a deafening _clank_ and his hands are already moving to pour himself another. Steve resents the twinge of guilt he feels at Tony’s lack of moderation.  
  
Stark looks back over his shoulder. “You still here?”  
  
Steve grits his teeth at the dismissal. “We’re not finished.”  
  
Stark gives a short, giddy laugh. “We were finished a while ago, Rogers.” _A long while._ Siberia, Ultron, SHIELD, before even. Stark turns away. “Get out. And take that with you.” He motions towards the shield. “It’s yours. You're welcome.”  
  
_Now_ Tony admits it’s Steve’s. Only now that it’s damaged, no longer a symbol of righteousness. Steve glowers and flips the shield from its resting place into his hand. He tries not to relish the ghost of fear that flickers across Stark’s face. The simple weight of the shield on his arm is anchoring, like the return of a missing limb he never realized was gone. It feels like courage.  
  
He wants to say more, to plant himself like a tree, but today is not that day. Tomorrow though; tomorrow is another chance to set things right that Steve fears they'll let pass them by. Another in an endless stretch, trapped together and alone.  
  
“We’re not done,” Steve promises as he walks out.    
  
Behind him there’s the sound of shattering crystal. He doesn’t look back.  
  
———

Since Steve came back Stark owns his life. He lives under Stark’s roof, eats his food, punches SI’s extra-strength heavy bags into submission every night for hours. He obeys the rules; the ones the lawyers have made explicit and the ones that Steve gleans from the hesitation in Vision’s voice and the reproach in FRIDAY’s silent, lagging fulfillment of his requests. He’s sure on the days his chest aches for no reason that Stark even owns the air he breathes.  
  
It’s no reprieve that the man’s scarcely around to rub it in. Even in his absence Steve can feel the spectre of Tony Stark looming over him. It’s baked into the clean lines of the Compound’s design and the array of takeout menus on the fridge. In the inexhaustible supply of food and heat and creature comforts that serve as markers of his omnipresence.  
  
It shouldn’t matter: Stark’s housed, clothed, deployed and paid Steve to varying degrees since he woke. Only now is it oppressive, knowing how little Stark thinks of him. It exceeds common decency in sinister ways.  
  
It leaves Steve feeling ungrateful and spiteful as he chafes behind invisible bars. He’s trapped by Stark’s generosity and the only respite is that Stark sees through the charade as easily as Steve does. It’s a gilded cage, one he walked into willingly. The BARF technology that was Bucky’s best chance is the intellectual property of SI and when T’challa had suggested sending it to Wakanda Stark had said, _No. If he wants it, he comes here_.  
  
_He_ didn’t mean Steve. _He_ meant Bucky. Steve had screamed inside and swallowed it down. He couldn’t let Bucky go alone. What were all Steve’s pride and principles worth next to his best friend’s life? Nothing, as it turns out. He’d turned into the type of hypocrite he’d always hated - someone who claimed sacrifices were necessary but couldn’t make any of their own. He couldn’t sacrifice Bucky’s chance.  
  
They went back. Steve had braced himself for a trial or a fight or forgiveness. He meticulously planned what he’d do if he got each one. He’d stepped off the plane onto US soil and surrendered himself, literally and metaphorically, to the powers that be.  
  
Stark hadn’t even bothered to show up.  
  
Four months later and Steve is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one’s taken their pound of flesh yet. They’ve just left him to rot in Avengers Compound, free and not free, suspended in limbo as the UN, the State Department and Avengers Inc all punt around the political football that is _Captain America_. Without signing his name to the Accords he’s exiled from the Avengers and without the team his focus blurs. His days bleed into each other: endless meetings with doctors/agents/lawyers who stare at him with disdain that gradually turns to pity. He runs laps, round and round the Compound, burning off energy until he can finally drop into dreamless sleep.  
  
Steve doesn’t belong here. (In this place, this time, this body.) Some days he wonders if ever he did.

The others fare better and worse. Natasha was already back by the time Steve returned. He wants to thank her for everything she’s done but the walls have ears and he doesn’t want Natasha to take any more hits on his behalf. Sam comes back with him and unlike Steve he has enough bite left to call a spade a spade. He rejects Stark’s offer outright and takes the plea deal his lawyers get him. He’s serving out his probation in DC and Steve tries not to feel like he let Sam down by not being Captain America but by being Steve Rogers instead.  

Wanda doesn’t come back. Her application for a US visa is rejected on the grounds of _previous ties to a known terrorist group_. She’s rerouted to the Netherlands who take more kindly to her situation. They remain heavy proponents of the Accords though and Steve is already prepared for the day that her gratitude towards her new home eclipses her hatred of Stark. Clint doesn’t come back either. He says he’s be better off in the wind and Steve just nods. No one not an Avenger ever learns Scott Lang’s name. He slips back into the US and Steve scans the daily reports for any news of his arrest.  
  
On bad days Steve wonders if Stark knows where Lang is, where Clint is, and is just keeping the information back from Ross until Steve dares put a hair out of line. Stark has always designed his weapons with care and he is used to living among his enemies in a way Steve is not. Steve itches for confrontation, for a finality Stark won’t give him.  
  
Steve had tried in the beginning. The Accords could wait for the more personal matters. He’d gone to Stark with a carefully planned explanation and a list of regrets written on Wakandan stationary. An accounting of _whys_ that he’d convinced himself Tony would understand. A plea on behalf of Bucky and everything he’d been through.  
  
Tony had just stared like he expected something more. _That it?_  
  
_There was a letter,_ Steve had rasped. He was never good with words and putting them to paper twice had been like getting blood from a stone.  
  
_Yeah, I got it. Good ol’ FedEx. Always reliable._  
  
_I never meant to hurt you,_ Steve had said, throat tight and forcing himself to meet Tony's eyes.  
  
This is where it should have turned around for them.  
  
Instead Tony had reached for the nearest socket wrench and tore through him with four words. _I don’t believe you._  
  
That’s where they’d left it: festering under every interaction but strictly off limits. They stick to the details now: the legalities of American interventionism, Vision’s visits to Wanda, Dr. Tanaka’s team. Dealing only with the symptoms and keeping far away from the disease. It’s not as if they lack for conflict - the shield is just the latest in a long line - but no one’s in the Raft, no one’s dead, no one’s fighting in the streets. No violence. No death squads. No ticking clocks.  
  
It should be better, the peace instead of the war, but the ragged broken thing inside of Steve can’t help but insist nothing’s won without blood.  
  
Steve knows he is not forgiven just as he knows there is no version of the Accords he will sign his name to and believe in. He spends his days on house arrest interspersed with legal meetings and workouts. He watches as Bucky is set up in the fortified North Wing with a team of doctors and fails, and fails, and fails. He tries not to feel like he has bartered himself away for nothing.  
  
One hundred and eight days gone.  
  
One hundred and eight days and counting.  
  
—————————

It’s two weeks before it happens again.  
  
Steve tries not to think about his loss of restraint in Stark’s office. It’s an aberration, a mistake, and not even the most significant one in his relationship with Tony. Steve hasn’t been avoiding him but their routines have always carried them in different circles and while in the past that had worried Steve, now he’s grateful for it. Because while he may have told Stark to _forget it_ Steve finds that he can’t. He fixates like he used to do with the Avengers’ battles; replaying it in his mind, picking apart what missteps were made and how best to correct them. For an experience Steve has no intention of repeating it occupies more than its fair share of his thoughts. 

Part of that is the isolation. Despite his relative freedom in the Compound he’s still under house arrest and the agents who mill about remember that. They don’t associate with him: half on principle and half fearful of picking up the taint.  
  
Today though, Avenger’s Compound is a madhouse; agents and officers running around in full flight. There’s a Category 5+ typhoon heading straight for Maldecia and the Avengers are all dressed up and going nowhere. The Maldecian government won’t let them in and under the Accords there’s no exception clause for natural disasters. _It’s not a terrorist group or an alien invasion_ , goes the logic. Hurricanes are neither world-ending nor contagious except people are going to die just the same and this time the Avengers are going to let them.  
  
No one says that out loud of course, so Steve does before Stark or some politician can convince them all that’s not exactly what they’re doing:  _People are going to die because a piece of paper told you to let them._ Steve has no power here - the shine came off Captain America long ago - but for a single instant when he’s faced with a sea of shocked faces he thinks, _All they needed was another option_.     
  
Then Stark walks in armoured to the throat and that’s the end of that.  
  
That was thirteen hours ago. Night’s fallen and Steve’s been locked out of the active floors. Instead he’s studying the holographic globe in the empty situation room. It’s the map Stark and the agents consult religiously every time the Avengers are called. It’s a soft blue orb with political divisions marked out. A bright band of cyan marks Accord signatory countries as it runs across North America and Europe, dotted through South East Asia and South America. It’s a stark visual reminder of how many people think Steve is wrong.

It can’t be good for people to see the world like this - from above and at will. It could fool someone into thinking they’re above it.

“FRIDAY, superimpose the radar map.”  
  
She does, even if she never answers him anymore. The globe shudders and the data from the weather radar satellites update in real time. The swirling mass of the typhoon is approaching the Accords-blue cluster of islands that are Maldecia and Steve’s fists clench tighter with each iteration as it inches closer. From above it looks harmless, a messy swirl of colour. From ground level it is the closest thing in existence to the wrath of God.  
  
The darkened room is momentarily lit by the harsh halogens of the hallway as someone opens the door.  
  
“… tell Natasha to try that next. I already told…”  
  
It’s Stark. He’s out of the armour because why wouldn’t he be? He’s got nowhere to go.  
  
The door shuts behind him and the soft blue glow of the globe fills the room again. Steve isn’t naive enough to think Stark didn’t know exactly who was in the room before he entered and he’s proved correct when Stark’s eyes meet his without surprise. Abruptly Stark makes his excuses and tosses the phone violently onto the nearest desk.  
  
“What are you having Natasha do?” Steve asks.  
  
“Kiss rings, wiggle her hips, promise things she can’t deliver. You know…” Stark leans against the desk closest to the spinning orb, “or maybe you don’t. _Politics_.”  He’s in the dark clothes he generally wears under the suit and all Steve can see is his silhouette. “This what you’ve been up to since you tried to guilt trip the support staff?”    
  
“I didn’t guilt trip them. I told them the truth.” Steve leans his forearms on the railing safely separating his level from Stark’s. “If they feel guilty that’s because they’re good people.”  
  
“You’re manipulative as all hell and you don’t even see it, do you?”  
  
Steve looks him straight in the eye. “It’s the truth.”  
  
“Yours maybe,” Stark mumbles and Steve hates that the future seems to be built on easy relativism. It only makes him grasp his absolutes harder.  
  
On the holographic globe the typhoon is a beautiful counter-clockwise spiral as it moves towards landfall. Stark sighs. “Fri, show me the numbers I ran this afternoon. Include the probabilities.”  
  
_“Mr. Rogers does not have clearance to view those files.”_  
  
Steve nearly jumps out of his skin at the petulant Irish lilt coming from the ceiling. He’d forgotten how human Stark’s AIs can be. She seems to have inherited Stark’s pettiness as well:  _Captain_ is clearly no longer in her vocabulary.  
  
“They’re my files. Light ‘em up.” The globe ripples once again and the two blue shades on the map splinter in a thousand more sub-shades. “Thanks, Darling.”  
  
Stark’s globe isn’t binary, it’s mapped by degree; cyan to blue to black and every colour inbetween. There are a series of percentages attached to each country that flicker in real time, fluctuating up and down. Billions of lives quantified. Meted and measured and given a calculated cost.  
  
Steve purses his lips and carefully keeps both hands curled around the railing to keep himself from leaving.  
  
“You wanted to know the future?” Stark’s tone is shallow, devoid of hope. “Ta-da." He points. “First percentage is the naked probability the Avengers will be granted permission to enter.” The boldest one over Maldecia reads 8.08%. “The second is the probability they will treat us as hostile in the future if we violate Maldecian sovereignty.” Those numbers range wide, from near certainties on either extreme. The US, Steve learns, won’t really care but most of South America will turn on a dime.  
  
“And the third one?”  
  
“Best guess differential of how far I can move Probabilities 1 and 2.” Stark shrugs. “Team composition matters a lot. You’ll be happy to know that there are several countries who’ll trust the Avengers only provided you’re at the helm. Granted there’s a longer list of countries you’re prohibited from entering on principle. It’s nearly as impressive as mine.”  
  
Stark’s babbling. Steve may not be a genius but he isn’t stupid. He scans the globe, watching the numbers flex and settle as the typhoon lurches closer. He can see the flawed conclusion Stark’s come to and the absolution he must want if he’s sharing it with Steve. “You’re going to let the storm hit.”  
  
He can see the tension climb Stark’s spine. “I can’t change their minds.”  
  
Steve tries to swallow down his anger but his voice still comes out low and accusatory.“You don’t get to hide behind projections and a piece of paper. Their government’s wrong but since they’re going to get their own citizens killed that’s fine with you.”  
  
“They’re the ones who elected - ”  
  
“ _Don’t_ ,” Steve says too sharply and Stark’s head shoots up. “They don’t deserve to die because they chose wrong. But they’re going to because someone down there is prioritizing control over doing what’s right.”  
  
They’re not talking about the Maldecian president anymore. Stark plants his silhouette directly in Steve’s sightline. “Which one is it, Rogers? You seem to think I control what entire countries do but in my spare time I’ve taken to licking the boots of whatever government official I can find. Puppetmaster or patsy, you can’t have it both ways.”  
  
Steve isn’t used to inaction. He hates it. “I’m saying we should be helping - “  
  
“- by which you mean _I_ should be helping - ”  
  
“No, I mean _we_ \- “  
  
Stark’s eyes narrow, “- and I mean _I_ because you’d be utterly useless. Pop quiz Spangles: what language do they speak in Maldecia?” Steve can’t answer and Stark knows it. “Right, so coordinating with the locals is out. Can you fly through torrential rainfall once the infrastructure washes out? Drop rubble to prevent storm surge? Prevent buildings from collapsing? No, you can’t.”  
  
“But _you_ can,” Steve accuses and he can see Stark falter.  
  
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”  
  
“I know better than most.” Steve is hyperaware that Stark’s less than five feet from him. “I know that if you don’t do something it’s not because you can’t. It’s because you _won’t_.”    
  
“I can’t control the fucking weather!” Stark takes a step closer, ignoring the warning etched in Steve’s hunched shoulders. “I’m not the Typhoon-whisperer, you need Thor for that!”  
  
The storm is no one’s fault. It couldn’t care less about any of them: Steve or Tony or the people in its path. It remains perfectly blameless and all they have left to turn on is each other.  
  
Steve can’t help himself. “You should be there.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stark says thickly, “I should be there and I’m not,” he looks at Steve, "and neither are you."  
  
Then Stark makes his fatal mistake: he steps too close.  
  
Steve could have sworn his left hand was locked to the railing but it shoots out to grab Stark’s arm. For a moment neither of them move, they’re teetering on the precipice, spoiling for a fight to take the edge off their mutual frustration.  
  
“You actually going to hit me this time?” Stark asks. “Because you told me sex wasn’t going to be a regular thing.”  
  
It’s a taunt but it doesn’t matter. Stark’s broken the seal and spoken the unspeakable aloud. It’s real now. (As if it wasn’t before; fifteen days of rattling around Steve’s brain). His fingers won’t release Stark’s arm, they bite in harder.  
  
“FRIDAY, lock the door.” Steve doesn’t recognize his own voice.  
  
“ _Boss…_ ” The electronic voice sounds cautious.  
  
Stark’s jaw ticks as he turns to face Steve. “Do it, Fri.”  
  
The soft click of the conference doors locking is the only warning Steve gets before he’s pushed up against the railing behind him. It’s only surprise that gets Stark that far, Steve rights himself ready to push him right back before -  
  
Stark sinks to his knees with intent and all the air in Steve’s lungs rushes out. He can’t seem to get them to inflate again. He stays cornered against the desk, his escape forgotten in concession to more dire emergencies. Below, Stark’s clever fingers undo the button and zipper before him and Steve’s fists grip wood like a lifeline as he fights for control of his choppy, uneven breathing. The buzzing feeling rising in his stomach is mostly lust and only slightly apprehension because if Steve does this - if he lets this happen - then he can’t pretend what happened before was a one-off mistake.  
  
This is sex. This is Tony on his knees.  
  
Steve feels a spike of arousal so intense he’s ashamed. It’s forgotten a moment later when Tony finds what he’s looking for and his fist loosely encloses Steve’s erection to stroke as he tongues at the join between thigh and hip. The warm, wet sensation jostles the last of the fight loose in Steve. He breathes through the mounting anticipation as Tony gradually moves closer and closer...

There's a warm swipe around Steve's base. “Yes or no?”

Stark’s voice is too loud even though Steve knows it’s barely above a whisper. The last time Steve did this was in the back of a bombed-out finishing school in Belgium. Her name was Alice and Steve doesn’t know whether she lived or died.  
  
He nods abruptly, eyes closed, but Stark must not be looking either.  
  
“I need an answer.” Tony’s hand doesn’t stop but his mouth has pulled back.  
  
_Damn him_. Steve forces the single syllable past his lips. “Yes.”  
  
Stark was just waiting for permission. He immediately licks a path up Steve’s shaft from root to head before swallowing him down. It’s almost too much but still not quite enough to silence Steve’s apprehension. It shouldn’t be Tony but it’s clearly going to be and _really_ , the tactician in Steve’s head reasons, _Stark’s the best choice_. It’s not as if he can disappoint Stark more, it’s not as if Stark will ever want more. ( _It’s not_ , the snide voice in his head says, the one the serum should have drowned, _as if Stark deserves better_.)  
  
It’s not as if Tony hasn’t done this before and is proving that now, coaxing responses from Steve that he holds back behind locked teeth. Stark curls his tongue and sucks and a small broken sound leaves Steve’s throat. He quickly swallows down the ones that follow - silence the one unbroken rule.  
  
Steve remembers the shady clubs and theatres in Brooklyn that were reserved for men of a certain persuasion. He’d always liked women too though, and that’s where Steve always thought he’d land. After the serum there had been a handful of deviant encounters and Steve’s excuses were well-worn: it was human comfort, the war having momentarily scrambled everyone’s priorities. But even if Steve never judged this isn’t something he ever wanted for himself. There was a line somewhere that he didn’t know he hadn’t crossed until now.  
  
Trust Tony to take him so far over it he won’t be able to find his way back.    
  
After all, this is the future not a back alley in 1940. This isn’t two fearful-eyed men darting into dark corners for a brief few hours where they can be themselves. This is Tony Stark whose past dalliances are splashed across tabloids whenever the news cycle slows, who Steve once saw interpret _cocksucker_ as a pick-up line instead of an insult. (And is an apt descriptor as it turns out.) 

Steve’s jaw is clenched closed but the small sounds Tony draws from his throat are obscene in the half-dark. The only reprieve is that at least Stark’s mouth is occupied so he can’t mock Steve for them. 

For his part Steve can’t bear to look down for long. He steals glimpses of Tony’s silhouette backlit by the glow of the holograms. His hair is dark where it’s haloed in blue. It’s not Stark’s colour; it’s Steve’s. Reds, golds, and browns all belong to Tony, all the seductive rich colours with warm undertones. Steve can’t let him take blue too but it’s already too late. Every time he sees this particular shade of cyan he’s going to think of Stark’s lips and _this_ and it feels like just one more thing Tony’s taken from him.  
  
Tony’s mouth is warm and sure, and the pleasure in Steve’s groin builds until he realizes that besides the obvious he doesn’t know how this is going to end. He has little idea to what modern etiquette requires and when he lurches his hips back Tony’s mouth just follows. He can’t figure out an appropriate warning and when he goes to ask nothing comes out except a sharp, bitten-off exaltation. He holds on as long as he can but it’s nearly too late before he succumbs to temptation and _touches_. He threads a hand through Tony’s hair to tug his head away.  
  
In true Stark fashion Tony pays him no heed, just moves his mouth closer and faster and deeper.  
  
Steve tenses and comes, fascinated and disgusted at once as he watches Stark’s throat convulse as he swallows. The hand in Tony’s hair isn’t gripping anymore, just absentmindedly stroking through strands. Steve doesn’t want to draw attention to it by pulling it back. Besides, of the two actions Steve’s is hardly the more intimate.    
  
Stark leans himself back on his heels and for the first time Steve thinks of the discomfort kneeling might bring. Tony just bows his head, pink tongue flicking out as his lips twitch into a half-smile. Steve smiles softly back. The moment should be massively awkward but it’s not. It’s nice. This place between them that doesn’t exist in anger or suspicion.  
  
Steve hopes Tony doesn’t expect direct reciprocation. It’s not that Steve would leave him unsatisfied but he’s not quite sure he could manage _that_ today and certainly not to what Steve imagines are Tony’s usual standards -  
  
“ _Boss?_ ” Friday’s voice sounds small and Steve didn’t think that possible.  
  
Tony’s eyes squeeze shut like a man anticipating a bullet. “Go, Fri.”  
  
“ _Landfall_.”  
  
His gaze flicks open at the same time as Steve’s hand leaves his hair. Behind them the blue hologram of the world shows the spinning typhoon obscuring the Eastern edge of Maldecia. The percentages in the simulations jump wildly for an instant before stabilizing. Landfall means that so far the Accords have kept the Avengers back, so far they’ve kept their word. The mission’s gone from preventative to active.  
  
Stark immediately gets to his feet. He heads towards the door without a backward glance. “Fri, find me Natasha. Let’s see if the ambassador likes me any better after going several rounds with her.”  
  
The door opens and closes. Steve can hear the metallic click as Friday locks it behind him. Then he’s alone.  
  
He stays up all night watching as Stark’s future collapses into being.    
  
———————————

There are days when the only thing that keeps him sane is visiting Bucky. Everything that surrounds the rehabilitation of the Winter Soldier is carefully planned and scheduled - up to and including visits from Steve. _We need him to focus on moving forward_ , the doctors had said as if it was Steve who was the jarring ghost from the past and not the other way around.  
  
He supposes he should be grateful that Stark has banked his misplaced hate enough to allow Bucky breathing room but he can’t help but see Stark’s total abdication from the Winter Soldier’s reformation as a cheap dodge. Steve doesn’t know what he expected except _more_. Tony is extreme in the things he cares for - this caution is out of character and the longer it last, the less Steve believes in it. He wavers between knowing it’s easier on both of them if Bucky stays out of Stark’s line of fire, and the uneasy feeling that accompanies never knowing if Bucky could be doing better with Tony's help.  
  
The North Wing of the Compound is strictly off limits to non-appointed staff but one of the medical technicians buzzes Steve through the door with a smile. It’s nothing more than natural friendliness but that’s rare enough these days that Steve conjures up a smile back. The rictus feels fake and plastic stretched across his face. He thinks that it didn’t used to.     
  
“Hey, Punk.” Bucky's leaning against the (triple-paned and bulletproof) glass with a smirk on his face. Intact and whole and alive - and the entirety of Steve’s life suddenly makes sense again even if he had to tear down every part of who he was to find it.  
  
Steve smiles again and this time it doesn’t feel strange at all.  
  
The doctors don’t let them leave the North Wing but they do let them into the small gym populated with physical therapy equipment and exercise mats. In the corner is a lone basketball hoop which at first seems like a cruel taunt to throw at a one-armed man and instead turns out to be their godsend: shooting hoops is a two person activity in a way that hitting a heavy bag is not.  
  
“How are you doing, really?” Steve asks once it becomes clear he’s going to lose by a landslide. Again.  
  
There’s a pause and Steve _hopes_. As much as he wants Bucky to be cured, there are days he’d settle for Bucky telling him it’s horrible, that nothing works and it’s all a trick - because then the waiting would stop and Steve would be useful again.  
  
Instead Bucky just shrugs. “Food’s good.”  
  
“I’ll pass that along.”  
  
“Don’t tell the cook I threw most of it up.”  
  
_Oh_. Steve winces. “Bad day?”  
  
“No, just - ” Bucky waits for Steve’s shot to miss and ricochet the wrong direction off the backboard. “…long, I guess.”  
  
Steve hasn’t come by since the typhoon incident and his heart sinks because Bucky shouldn’t have to wait on him anymore. “That why you’re not wearing the arm?”  
  
“I’m beating you by twenty-two points, I clearly don’t need it.” To make his point Bucky sinks his next easy basket.  
  
Steve catches the basketball and refuses to pass it along until the other man meets his eyes.    
  
Bucky gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Haven’t worn it all week.”  
  
“Bucky - “  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“It’s not, you deserve - “  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to work yourself into a twist. It just chafes a bit.” The new arm is fiberglass and plastic and silicone, built for comfort and designed by doctors. That doesn’t make it faultless.  
  
“If it hurts I can ask them for a different one. I’ll ask - “  
  
“Don’t.” Bucky concentrates very carefully on the basketball and not on Steve’s face. “Please don’t.”  
  
Steve’s not even sure who he was going to name: Stark or Natasha or Dr. Tanaka. It doesn’t really matter; the residual guilt Bucky carries is aimless sometimes, encompassing everything. In the beginning Steve would rush to reassure him until Dr. Tanaka had pulled Steve aside and laid it out for him: _you have to choose what you want more: Sgt. Barnes in recovery or your friend back_.  
  
Steve doesn’t like to think of how close he came to answering incorrectly.

“I promise,” he says, arms raised in surrender. “I’m sorry.” Apologies are never that difficult to come by with Bucky.  
  
Bucky uses his good hand to rub at the scar tissue of his shoulder. “I just have to get used to it.”  
  
“The new arm?”  
  
“Not having one.” Bucky studies his only extant hand. “I haven’t had a right arm since 1944. The arm _they_ gave me - the new one too - they just hid that. I lost it. It’s gone.”  
  
Steve's eyes dart to and from the empty socket. Bucky should never have lost the arm at all because he never should have fallen. Steve should have been faster. Bucky shouldn’t have been left at the mercy of Hydra to be turned into the Soldier, to be sent to kill -  
  
(If he had saved Bucky, he might have saved Tony too.)  
  
Steve says none of this. He bundles all his regrets tight and stores them somewhere the world can’t see them. “Okay.”  
  
“ _Okay?_ ” Bucky narrows his eyes in suspicion.  
  
“Well if you think I’m going easy on you because you only have one arm Buchanan, you’ve got another thing comin’.”  
  
Bucky snorts and it’s almost the same. Steve loses the next game by a respectable eight points. If he ever actually wins, Bucky’s competitive nature might compel him to wear the new arm purely for mechanical advantage.    
  
“How’re you holdin’ up?” Bucky asks once the visit’s winding down. He asks that a lot these days. Steve supposes he gets it from his therapists.  
  
“Alright.” His life is cushy comparatively.  
  
Bucky shoots him a dirty look that’s so familiar it hurts. “Well now I know you’re lyin’.”  
  
“It really is fine. Just… ” and because Steve is not the greatest liar he adds enough of the truth to save himself, “...Stark.”  
  
It’s been four days since Steve’s latest mistake. He’s not as immune to them as people want to believe Captain America should be. Bucky just nods slowly like he suspects that whatever truce between the two of them is fragile enough he should let sleeping dogs lie. Steve can’t expect Bucky to understand, not when he doesn’t even understand it himself.  
  
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Steve says, aiming for casual. “It’s really not that bad, just boring. I’ll take it over the alternative.”  
  
He tries for a reassuring smile but Bucky’s expression is flat. “You miss it. _Avenging_.”  
  
Of course he does. It’s not the same for Bucky, who volunteered once and paid for it dearly. Steve’s bones ache from the effort it takes to keep himself here, feet planted where Bucky needs him. It’s that devotion that prevents him from stealing Quinjets and diving headlong into typhoons. He can stop himself from running off but he can’t stop himself from wanting to. He is war down to his bones in a way the Starks never were even when they were better at it.   
  
“I want to be here. For you. The world can save itself for awhile.” That’s what everyone keeps telling him.  
  
“I’m just saying,” Bucky says slowly, precisely, “losing every week at basketball might not be worth you giving that up.” _I might not be worth it_.  
  
Steve’s throat tightens. The agreement for Bucky’s care isn’t contingent on Steve’s presence. In fact it’s deliberately extricable from it but just as Steve can’t bear to stay, he can’t bring himself to leave either.   
  
“You're worth it,” he says with conviction. He owes Bucky a life. Staying is the least he can do.  
  
“Well, if you ever need to talk,” Bucky’s lips quirk, “you always know where to find me.”  
  
It’s meant as a joke but for the longest time Steve had thought it was too late for the things he should have said and done. Now he has a second chance and his mouth feels like sandpaper and his tongue is leaden. It’s unfair that all his words and nerve are saved for Stark these days.

Every time Steve spares a thought for him in Bucky’s presence he feels like a traitor. Like Tony’s hands have left imprints on his skin and if Bucky looks too closely he’ll see them. He’ll know what Steve’s done and how much he’s enjoyed it and Steve would lose him all over again. Regardless of Stark’s current agenda, Iron Man tried to kill his best friend. That should be enough. What does it say about him that it’s not?  
  
(It shouldn’t be Stark. It should have been someone else a long time ago even if all they got were dark alleyways and stolen moments. It’s one of the things Steve never wants to confess - even to himself, _especially_ to himself - because he knows he won’t survive losing it again.)  
  
Steve clears his throat. “I know. Thanks.”  
  
Bucky gives a smile back, sweet and soft, and Steve doesn’t recognize it at all. That’s when he realizes that Stark hasn’t taken this from him.

No, this Steve’s ruined all on his own.  
  
—————————

He manages to go a whole five days before he breaks his promise to Bucky. He doesn't confront Stark in his office, he corners him in the garage as Tony steps out of an obnoxious orange Audi back from some business in the city.  
  
The door has barely swung open before Steve calls out, his ambush well prepared. “Tony.”  
  
Stark startles. “So it’s back to first names now.” He slams the door shut with what Steve suspects is more force than strictly necessary. “Well I’ve sucked your dick, I guess I’ve earned it.”  
  
Steve doesn’t take the bait, Tony’s clearly in a foul mood. “Stark.”  
  
“That’s better. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us.”  
  
“I’d like it if we talked.”  
  
Stark pinches the bridge of his nose once he realizes Steve’s strategically planted himself between him and the exit. “What do you want? Make it snappy.”  
  
Steve needs this to go well. “Bucky’s having trouble with his prosthetic.”  
  
“And? Not my one-armed monkey, not my circus.”  
  
Steve forces himself not to react. He keeps his tone even and matter-of-fact. “Tanaka says the one he has is the best they can do.”  
  
“He’s right. Helen designed it.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“She’s the best there is at biometric grafting. Her technique uses - ”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Stark’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Then I don’t know what crime I’m being accused of. I had absolutely nothing to do with your buddy’s new arm - never even touched it.”

Steve holds his breath. “I know.”

It takes a moment for Steve's words to sink in.  
  
“ _Ah_.” Stark leans back against the hood of the Ferrari nearest to him. “It’s the best they could do but you think I could do better.”  
  
“I _know_ you can," Steve corrects. It’s weighted too heavily to be a compliment.  
  
Stark runs a hand over his face and his shoulders drop. “No. I can’t. Or _I won’t_ , since that’s the terminology you prefer.”    
  
It’s not like Steve wasn’t prepared. He knows Stark’s washed his hands of the endeavor taking place in the North Wing. Tony’s shuffled off responsibility to other parties, absolving him before he even has the chance to make the wrong decision just like with the Accords but Steve knows righteous anger will get him nothing here.  
  
“Please,” he pleads softly and Stark’s head jerks up like he’s been slapped. “You're angry. Don’t take it out on him.”  
  
“I’m not subtle, Rogers,” Stark says with disgust, “if I start _taking it out on him_ he’ll know it. I’m still not building a brainwashed assassin a shiny new weapon to hit me with. Call it self-preservation.”  
  
“I know what it is.” Steve wants to call it _spite, retribution_ , _cowardice_. He can’t afford to.  
  
“Then do you find it a touch ironic that you’re here to talk me out of my newfound technological caution?”  
  
“Bucky’s doing better.”  
  
“ _Hallelujah_ ,” Tony mumbles.  
  
“But - “ Steve doesn’t know how much he should disclose, “but it’s taking a long time.”  
  
“ _Good_ ,” Stark says and Steve glares, all careful neutrality forgotten. “The longer it takes to break his conditioning the stronger his legal defense for _not guilty by reason of brain-scrambling_.”  
  
“He doesn’t need a defense. He’s innocent.”  
  
Stark pushes off from the car and hisses lowly, “I know at least two people who’d say differently if they were alive to say it.”  
  
Steve holds his tongue. This is their line. Anything further could too easily cause irreparable damage to themselves or the garage. Steve is familiar with following rules of engagement. He lets the silence stretch, tacitly granting Stark's point.  
  
“He’s a victim too. What he did - what he was made to do…" Steve doesn't voice it aloud. "He deserves what everyone does.“  
  
“Which is?” Stark asks flatly.  
  
“A chance to fix himself.” He appeals to Tony's innate desire to _fix_ , to _repair_.  
  
“You really think the _arm’s_ the problem?” Stark asks, somewhat incredulous. “I could give Barnes the comfiest, spiffiest arm in the known universe and he’d still occasionally forget who you are.”  
  
The words sting like a blow. “He’s getting better," Steve repeats.  
  
“What happens when he stops?”

“I won’t stop trying," he says stubbornly. "I won’t give up on him. Arm or not. With or without you.”  
  
Stark shakes his head. “You have _so much_ faith in people," he looks Steve in the eye, "I hate it. You believe everyone who goes through shit can come out the other side. It’s a nice sentiment - full points there - but sometimes life gives you lemons and you end up an asshole. Or you lose your legs, your arm, your mind and then…”  
  
“Then you pick yourself up,” Steve finishes resolutely. “With help if you need it.”    
  
“But it alters you. Permanently.” Tony fidgets. “That’s what _change_ is. If Barnes has stopped getting better then maybe there’s nothing more to fix. Maybe this is just who he is now and there's nothing you or I or HYDRA can do about it.”

It's odd to hear his greatest fear fall from Tony's lips. “I don’t believe that.”  
  
Stark nearly smiles. “I know. _Really_ , I know. I learned that lesson”  
  
“Please, Tony,” Steve tries one last time. “The arm might mean nothing or it might mean everything. No one can make you do this but I’m asking you to try." He tries to project his sincerity.  
   
The entreaty has the opposite of the intended effect. Frustration surges back into Stark’s frame, his mouth twisting. “Where was all this _can we talk_ crap six months ago? You came back for him, you’ll beg for him, you'll throw yourself at my mercy. You’ll even say _please_. All for him. Why?”  
  
“He’s -” Steve has to look away so Tony won't see the secret in his eyes, "he’s my friend."  
  
“That it?” Stark asks, face stone.  
  
“I’ll do whatever it takes to give Bucky a chance, you know that.” When Steve looks up he realizes he’s somehow said something very, very wrong.

Stark’s eyes are nearly black. “As a matter of fact Rogers, I remember _exactly_ what you’d do for Barnes.”  
  
Something deep in the pit of Steve’s ribcage frays. “So you won’t help him because of me.”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a reason besides the obvious.”  
  
“You’re better than that.”     
  
“Am I?” Stark challenges, like he actually wants to know Steve’s answer.  
  
It’s a trick of the light sometimes, watching Tony cycle rapidly between all the things Steve hates: proud and scorned, like Loki; the tailored three-piece suit and tie to match Pierce. The alcoholic, the iron monger; the flawed creation of a well-intentioned genius, with Ultron’s poisoned tongue. It’s more comforting than days like today when it’s much too obvious that Tony’s just a man hanging by a thread.  
  
Steve swallows. “I’ve always thought so.”  
  
Stark leans back on the black sportscar. “No, you didn't," he says with too much surety. "And my answer's still _no_.”  
  
They’re dead in the water, the ship’s already sunk. Whatever they do now is just one last waltz before the cold takes them. Before numbness climbs limbs and sluggish blood slows -    
  
Steve leaves the garage before he can make a third mistake.  
  
——————————

Steve has limited contact with the other Avengers but for a woman who nominally lives and works in the same building as him, Natasha is a ghost. Even Stark’s haunting presence is anchored to the Compound, Natasha’s is not. She drifts in and out, retreating further and further into the shell of the Black Widow.  
  
“Did the council at least send you somewhere with a beach?” Steve asks with a small smile when he finally catches her walking off the jet and into the hangar.  
  
Once upon a time she would have volleyed back a sly joke of her own as they corralled the rest of their team. Now she just inclines her head in greeting before taking off. He tries not to let the disappointment eat at him. It's unfair. There was no abrupt implosion, no argument, but their relationship is slipping away regardless. The more desperate Steve tries to hold on, the more intangible she becomes. When she seeks him out later for a walk around the grounds it's a rare occurrence. She leads him to the very edge of the perimeter, out of range of any of the Compound’s surveillance.    
  
“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Did you find Clint? Is he okay?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t he be?” It’s a non-answer, emblematic of who she is these days, like they’re back at the beginning and she can’t trust him.

“I just need to know that he’s safe.”  
  
“He’s safe,” she repeats blandly. She wouldn’t lie, not about this. “Laying low isn’t new to him. The American government doesn’t have the time or inclination for a full-scale manhunt. He’s fine.”  
  
_Fine_ as defined by Natasha has a different meaning than its accepted use but Steve takes her point. It’s difficult for him to accept that the battle is over and the crisis has passed. This is just what _normal_ and _home_ look like now.  
  
“What about you?” she asks.  
  
For a man who can't get sick in the world's most accommodating prison, Steve gets asked that question a lot. “I’m alright.”  
  
She looks at him steadily but doesn’t pry further. “I was in New York. There was pushback on Colonel Rhodes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
She gives him a cool look. “You. Stark. The rest of the world isn’t keen on another American in charge of the Avengers and Rhodes is a soldier in a mechanized suit. Too many similarities.”  
  
“He’s not - ”  
  
“We know that, they don’t.”  
  
Rhodes has the qualifications, the experience. He signed the Accords from the off. “I’d have thought he’d be the ideal candidate.”  
  
“He was. That’s why we proposed him. They won’t see past the suit and the rank.”  
  
Bureaucracies have trouble looking past the stats to the person underneath. Steve could never have joined Project Rebirth if it existed in this day and age. The modern America isn’t desperate enough to accept him.

“So what happens now?”   
  
Natasha’s expression is bland. “I accepted the nomination. It’ll be announced Tuesday.”  
  
It takes a moment for Steve to figure out what she means because her plans have always zigged where his have zagged.

“Congratulations, Team Leader,” he says softly, beaming. He wants to hug her but restrains himself. It wouldn’t be as welcome as it once was. “You know the Avengers were always yours, right?”  
  
The hope in Steve’s smile fades when she doesn’t respond. He knows Natasha has never wanted this. She has always preferred the outsider’s role, keeping herself aloof and apart. He tries not to notice how she steers them back inside before he can say anything else.  
  
One of the TVs in the foyer is playing a news bulletin for an array of bored agents.  
  
_In light of speculation that Russian defector Natasha Romanova is to be confirmed as new chairperson of the Avengers this week, we’re taking a deeper look at the violent past of the woman once known as the Black Widow..._  
  
It’s a repeat of an expose from four years ago that the news cycle has dragged back into relevance. It casts her as little red riding hood and the hungry wolf alike, complete with speculative commentary and interviews from those few who have claimed to have survived her. The names of her alleged victims scrawl across the bottom of the screen like ticker tape. It makes the list seem endless.    
  
“Turn it off.” Steve’s voice rings out, clear and strong, and for an instant it’s like the past six months never happened. The agents leap into action, scurrying to unplug the set instead of wasting time trying to find the remote. The news anchor blinks out of existence. The chastised agents turn to face them and Steve can still taste the threat of bile at the back of his throat. “I’m sure you all have better things to be doing.”  
  
No one wants to argue. The agents all take flight for anywhere else.  
  
Natasha seems completely unfazed but Steve isn’t fooled. They’re alone in the silent foyer but that news segment is being broadcast live for a quarter-share of America; condemnation played off as investigative reporting.  
  
“It wasn’t unfair,” Natasha says as she takes a seat across from the dead screen.  
  
Steve uncurls his fists and sinks into the chair next to hers. “It wasn’t true.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t.” A Russian accent seeps into her voice, distorting the words from what he’s expecting. “Do you think the truth would have been better?”    
  
“Yes,” he says automatically before correcting himself. “No. I don’t know.” He deflates. “You have to hate this, Nat. You’re a spy, you can’t like your name all over the news.”  
  
“I don’t have to like it.”  
  
The harsh halogens are unflattering lighting for anyone but Steve can finally see how jet lagged she looks. Worn and tired under the yoke of responsibility and unable to dart for the safety of the shadows. Sometimes he thinks she’s the only one trying to hold them all together - everyone else is just trying to survive or rebuild or forget. It’s a wonder she hasn’t run off to join Clint yet.  
  
“He can’t make you do this,” Steve says. Stark’s affixed her name to compromise, plied her with responsibilities she never wanted, and shoved her into the spotlight. Now they’re tearing her apart.  
  
“Who else will?” Natasha’s eyes are perfectly blank as she sinks the knife in. “There aren’t as many of us as there used to be.”  
  
“Stark’ll do it.” It’s the only answer Steve can think of off the top of his head. “He’s good at it.”  
  
Her lips quirk. “I don’t think Tony’s up to it right now.”  
  
“And you are?”  
  
“Stark got eaten alive for years." Her voice doesn't betray any emotion Steve can recognize. "It’s my turn.”  
  
Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. “Then we’ll make them love you, Nat. Like we do.”  
  
She gives him the slightly asymmetrical smile that Steve hopes is her real one. Her words cut deeper because of it. “You don’t know any more about me than they do.”  
  
She switches the television back on to the same awful news program. Steve knows when he’s been dismissed. He leaves her in the empty foyer to the echoing list of her real and imagined sins.  
  
———————————  
  
He doesn’t seek out Stark that night. Instead he takes his frustrations out on the heavy bag in the gym long past the time when the day shift’s gone home. Natasha’s back which means so is Rhodes and Steve tells himself that whatever messed-up impulses he’s had are just cabin fever. Isolation driving him to things he’d never do otherwise.

(Steve never thought he was the type of man who’d lie to himself but then again he never thought he was the type to lie.)  
  
“You know you have a legally enforceable curfew, right?”  
  
It’s not a voice Steve wants to hear. He leans his forehead against the bag and relishes the sound of his own heavy breathing. He doesn’t dare look up. “Did you come down here to enforce it?”  
  
The dark line in his peripheral vision saunters forward until Steve can discern a figure in jeans and a dark T-shirt. He looks like the Tony in Steve’s better memories: comfortable and casual. Tired and not bothering to hide it. Stark always looks untouchable these days, as if he were made of nothing more than money and words, and to see him less so makes something in Steve’s stomach lurch in recognition. it's longing and helplessness tangled up with that voice that knows that even _before_ they were never perfect.  
  
“No,” Tony replies surprisingly magnanimously. He stares off into the far corner. “Listen, if you want to stay up - “  
  
Steve doesn’t care what Stark’s come to offer. The unearned nostalgia roils in his gut and makes his tongue is sharp. “How was your meeting with Ross?”  
  
He raises his head just in time to see Tony’s posture snap upright. _Good_. Steve can’t regret spoiling the moment; wrestling them both back down into the muck. Neither of them gets to pretend they’re who they used to be.  
  
“That’s classified,” Stark covers stiffly as he steps up next to him.  
  
“Of course it is,” Steve mumbles. He throws a left as hard as he can and relishes the surrender of the bag under his knuckles. He has super soldier strength; one punch would be enough to kill a man. The bag on the other hand simply comes unhooked and falls to the ground.  
  
“What do you want me to say, Rogers?” Angry. Accusatory. Familiar.  
  
Steve’s hands are wrapped well, white tape reinforcing joints, knuckles exposed. Weapons dangling at the end of wrists. Stark isn’t afraid, wasn’t all those times he should have been.  
  
“ _Nothing_ ,” Steve chokes out. “There’s nothing you can say.” He can’t stop himself from reaching for Stark but it’s with an open hand instead of a fist.  
  
He stops counting his mistakes after this one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, let's roll. 
> 
> This started out as an experiment with opacity. I wanted to write a story from the viewpoint of a character who was stuck, literally and metaphorically. My Steve's not the most well-informed or emotionally perceptive person. He's hyperfocused on certain subjects and very passive in others. His reactions to Tony, the Accords and/or the future do not reflect my own, nor am I putting them forth as correct. Adherence to the Accords forms the background of this story and that will not change. 
> 
> In addition, it turns out I can't write love declarations, apologies, or fight scenes, so I've skipped all of that. Many other stories cover that ground better than I ever could. (I hardly know people in real life who are emotionally erudite, I can't bring myself to write characters that way.) 
> 
> Maldecia is a fictional country that may or may not be the Philippines in all but name.


	2. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which promises are made.  
>  _Stark’s magnificent in ruin. Glorious in a way Steve never lets himself see: like the angry, destructive hunger of a forest fire is glorious provided you’re not a tree planted in its path. The only bits of Tony Steve knows he can trust are the ones in pain, in agony, in despair._

Steve learns more about Stark in the following months than he ever wanted to know. He fixates on the details because the larger act is too big to contemplate. Tony is an assault on the senses that can only be parsed afterward: a jumble of sights, smells, and tastes that Steve's memory won't let him forget. Salt water cologne mingling with harsh petroleum undertones, scar tissue raised in pattern like braille. Stark’s circumcised, he’s mouthy, he _swallows_. He guards his eyes closer than his wounds. Most of Steve’s experience is predicated on silence but Tony has no such filter: instructions, insults, and dirty talk all make an appearance - everything but Steve’s first name. Not since he came back which means not since…  
  
He doesn’t want to rifle through his memory to learn exactly when he stopped being Steve.    
  
The awful truths he learns about Stark are second only to those he learns about himself. It feels like everything good in him is becoming corrupted. When Tony’s snide remarks hit too far below the belt he can’t stop himself from asking _how’s pepper_ and _why’s bruce not back_ and once, horribly, _what are going to ruin next?_ Stark’s pulse spikes in a way unassociated with arousal when Steve looms over him and while Steve hasn’t done anything with that yet, the ugly urge to press any advantage he has left lurks under his skin.  
  
He doesn’t know if he hates who he is becoming or if this is who he always was. Under all the glamour of Captain America was a skinny kid who fought the world with his fists. What happens when you grant that kid power? The serum turned Schmidt into the Red Skull, Banner into the Hulk, Blomsky into an abomination. What did it turn Steve into?  
  
Maybe it’s not the serum at all, maybe it’s just Tony who brings out the worst in him.

It doesn’t help that they both know that Steve’s always the one who instigates. He reaches out and escalates the verbal to physical. It's a weakness he can't stop indulging. He wonders if Stark does it on purpose: dangling himself and his accomplishments in front of Steve like a matador. _I had a meeting with Ross_ or _Maximoff’s in visa limbo again_. Some days Steve resists and they part angry and alone. Some days he lays in wait in the garage for Tony’s return with an old, well-trodden argument at the ready.  
  
(Just once, Steve tastes whisky on Tony’s lips. He drops Stark on the couch and walks away, deaf to the curses hurled after him.)

It takes the sting out of their fights, burns off the excess energy until the memory of the aftermath replaces the anger at the beginning.

The careful balance is difficult to maintain, made more so since sex with Stark lends itself to extremes: absolute control or abject surrender. Steve’s the one who reaches out but Tony’s the one who follows through. Even when he’s on his knees it’s still his show. He drags responses out of Steve’s body like he’s playing an instrument.

On the worst days once Steve is spent Tony just smirks before spinning on his heel and walking away unsatisfied. He leaves Steve behind to the heavy post-orgasm bliss curdling in his gut. The lack of reciprocity feels like a betrayal of the only redeeming feature of this terrible idea; that it is mutual. The one-sidedness just feels like another resentment he can add to the pile.    
  
Then there are the days it swings the other way. Those times when he wrests control from Tony, inch by inch, with hands around wrists and aggressive, filthy kisses. It’s not enough to be stronger; Steve has to touch just right, has to ignore the myriad of ways Stark tries to rile him. When they have time and Stark has finally run out of words. Then there’s a perfect moment when Tony just sighs and says _fine_. His muscles go lax and compliant, and he lets Steve take over. Watching Stark’s surrender is heady, as temporary as it may be. It feels addictive and illicit. It feels like Steve _wins_.  
  
He’s sure sex isn’t supposed to be like this. They used to be a team.  
  
He tell himself it’s better than fighting.  
  
——————————————

The worst thing Steve ever learns about Tony is revealed the day after the Avengers return from a recovery mission in Brazil. The team has finally been released from their debrief and Steve watches Iron Man walk out of the conference room in the direction opposite to that of the MedBay. He retreats to the Avengers living quarters as the suit dissolve piecewise - some bits retracting elegantly while others drop to the floor with heavy _clunks_.   
  
Stark pays them no mind, already focused on his next mission. He jerks down the nearest svelte bottle from the well-stocked bar, more likely due to its proximity than any conscious choice. He doesn’t look up until amber liquid is safely sloshing around the bottom of a glass.   
  
“Rogers, you’re just in time. Want one? No?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “More for me.”  
  
Steve can smell the acrid odour of bourbon. “You’re not allowed to drink on duty.”  
  
“I don’t remember following that rule even when you had the ability to enforce it. Besides, mission’s over Spangles.”  
  
“The mission ends once you’ve cleared Medical, until then you’re under the council’s purview.” He stalks forward. “Inebriation on duty is cause for immediate removal from rotation.”  
  
“Well, well, well, look who’s been doing their assigned homework.” Stark smirks but it’s not playful. “Are you honestly trying to strongarm me into following the Accords? I don’t know if either of us will survive the irony of that.”  
  
“You’re the one who signed them. Not me.”    
  
Tony can't meet his eyes. “And you’re never going to, are you?”  
  
Tony’s never asked before because he knows already. Every set of lawyers that comes on a mission to bury Steve or set him free asks the same thing. The truth is complicated but it boils down to the same answer he’s always held. Principles aren't principles if you bend them when convenient.  
  
“Not the version that exists. I can’t.”  
  
“You _won’t_.”  
  
“Alright,” Steve agrees, “I won’t.”       
  
For a moment Tony looks chagrined, as if he’d allowed himself to hope differently and now only has himself to blame. “Then why do you care? Either the Accords fail or I do and you get to watch it all from the front row.”

“It matters because _you_ signed them.” Steve's finger hovers accusingly above Tony’s chest. They tore themselves apart over those papers and now Stark’s treating them as an _a la carte_ menu. “You fought for this. You wanted to choose which bits to follow you picked the wrong side.”  
  
Stark gives a little laugh at Steve’s spirited defense. “Well, that certainly makes me a hypocrite.” His eyes glitter in a way that only precedes casual cruelty. “At least I’m in good company.”  
  
Steve refuses to engage. “You gave them your word.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony sounds vaguely disgusted, with himself or the Accords it’s impossible to tell, “unfortunately for them I like my liquor and Rio sucked. AIM even offered me a job and before you yell, I’m pretty sure blowing their bunker to kingdom come counts as me turning them down.”  
  
Steve crosses his arms. “It’s also against regulations to talk about classified Avengers missions with non-cleared personnel.”  
  
Tony does a double-take as if he too forgot the current status quo. “Chalk it up to muscle memory,” he shakes his head and it's nearly fond, “we did this too many times.”  
  
It’s a reminder of what they used to have. When post-mission bickering was just that. “Go to Medical. Get cleared.”  
  
For an instant Tony looks tempted. Then, “No.”  
  
“ _Iron Man_ ,” Steve orders and after months of disuse it feels awkward on his tongue, “you - “    
  
“I’m not your problem anymore,” Tony interrupts. “You can’t frog-march me to the doctors. I’m fine, the armour is basically indestructible,” he winces, “barring certain notable exceptions.”  
  
Steve just glares. He knows better than to expect it’ll work on Tony but short of ripping the glass from his hand and carrying him down to Medical it’s all Steve has. Confined to an arena barring physical action the fight advantage lies with Stark.  
  
“I may not be your Team Leader anymore,” Steve nearly growls and Tony nods, _damn right_ , “but Natasha is.”  
  
The threat hangs over them both.  
  
Stark walks deliberately into the kitchen and holds his glass over the sink. His expression is still defiant. “I’m not going to Medical.”  
  
The implication is clear enough. A trade: a sober night for the ability to skip his medical exam. Everything with Stark these days is a bargain. Bucky used to tell Steve to pick his battles but the lesson had remained more or less an abstract concept until Tony. This isn’t a fistfight in an ally. This is a million minor disagreements fought with posturing and words, and Steve feels every one grinding him down. He’s finally learning his lesson and with every concession he feels like he’s giving up a piece of himself.  
  
“Fine.” He thinks once upon a time Tony might have done both just because Steve asked.  

The liquor drains into the sink.

“Happy now?” Tony asks. The answer is obviously _no_ and it’s little relief Stark isn’t happy about it either. “Am I at least allowed coffee?”

He reaches around Steve to the coffee machine but the moment his upper back twists his breath catches violently. He retracts his hand so quickly the coffee pot smashes to the ground and he has to brace both arms on the counter to prevent himself from doubling over.  
  
“FRIDAY!” Steve tries, alarmed.  
  
“ _Boss?”_ The AI bypasses him completely.  
   
The only sound in the silence is the whistling of Stark’s laboured breathing, dark head bowed. “Just give me a minute.”  
  
Steve eyes him warily before he picks up the shards of glass around Tony’s feet and dumps them in the sink.  
  
“Note to self: don’t do that again,” Stark says with forced normality.  
  
The anger that lies dormant in Steve’s belly surges as if Tony lying about his health was somehow a virgin offense. “You’re injured.”  
  
“It’s nothing.” Stark just about manages to stand upright.  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“And you’re not an Avenger anymore,” Tony throws out spitefully as he starts walking towards the elevator and out of Steve’s reach. “It’s not your problem.”  
  
“Of course you are,” Steve snaps angrily and he has never been able to leave anything alone in his life. It takes him all of five strides to catch up to Tony and absolutely no effort at all to push him up against the wall. He run his hands up and under Stark’s shirt in a way that is becoming too familiar as Stark struggles, sandwiched between Steve’s body and the wall.  
  
“-top! Hey -”  
  
Stark’s loud protests and gasping breaths are just background noise, processed somewhere else because the forefront of Steve’s brain is preoccupied with finding what truth Stark is hiding this time. The athletic wear of the undersuit is slippery and layered and Steve doesn’t take his time, just rips it open because goddamn it he’s _right_ and -  
  
“-eve! Steve!”  
  
Tony doesn’t use his first name anymore and the only reason he’d do so now is -  
  
Steve drops back. All the righteous roiling anger in him breaks like a wave and retreats, leaving behind something heavy and hollow that catches in his throat. He’s breathing too fast like he’s run a marathon without the serum and his vision refocuses.  
  
Stark is a wreck; wheezing and pale. Steve can’t look much better.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony enunciates perfectly clearly. His eyes are shut and his whole face is turned to the side in a grimace of pain. “We need a fucking _safeword_.”  
  
Steve’s tongue feels like sandpaper. He’d missed Tony calling him by his first name. Now he never wants to hear it again.    
  
Under his hands Tony is shaking with a mixture of pain and adrenaline and Steve pretends he doesn’t notice. Stark’s shirt is ripped up the side seam and hiked up to his armpits and Steve can see what he was trying to hide. There’s a swath of red-black bruise blooming across his left ribcage. It’s been hastily bandaged with medical tape, sloppily so, and Steve would bet his life that’s because Tony did it one-handed. Bruised ribs most likely. Hopefully nothing fractured or Tony truly is an idiot.  
  
But it’s the rest of Stark’s torso that causes Steve to stop breathing. There are other bruises; lighter ones, already fading to yellow and green. Older and healing and not at all a concern except Steve knows exactly how Tony got them because Steve put them there.

There’s a mottled smear with yellowing edges across the top of Stark’s right pectoral where Steve had braced his arm as he pressed Tony into a wall. There’s a particularly deep violet circle in the soft tissue just north of Tony’s hipbone where Steve’s thumb dug in. The marks around the other hip are lighter and incomplete but if Steve traced them lower he’s sure they’d clearly outline the shape of fingers. He wonders what else he’d find if he stripped Tony bare.

Steve lets go before he can do more damage. Tony stumbles at the unexpected withdrawal before finding his footing and Steve expects an angry outburst that never comes. Tony’s still not looking at him, he’s half-curled over himself trying to breathe through clenched teeth and around bruised ribs. A tear track runs from the edge of his left eye downward. The hand not clutched to his ribcage is tangled in Steve’s T-shirt in a fist.  
  
This is the worst, most intimate thing he ever learns about Stark: _Tony hates pain_.  
  
Steve doesn’t like what it says about him that this revelation hits from out of the blue. It’s the simplicity of it that catches him off guard. He is too used to thinking of Stark as exceptional - with his money, his mind, his modernity - but he is not the exception in this. It’s written, plain as day, in every line of his body.  
  
_This_ is the the thinness of the ledge Steve’s walking. This is how he’s changed and it has nothing to do with serum.  
  
“You owe me a shirt, Rogers,” Tony’s hand relinquishes its grip as he slumps to the floor in a heap, “and a fucking _drink_.”  
  
The shirt’s easy. Steve hauls his T-shirt over his head and drops it in Tony’s lap without a second thought. He heads for the kitchen only to return with -  
  
“Fucking _coffee_?” Tony looks incredulous, like he expected Steve to bring him a bottle of whisky. “I can’t even believe you.”  
  
“You should have been more specific,” he deadpans.  
  
Tony very nearly gives a genuine smile at that. He’s not wearing Steve’s T-shirt - the injured ribs would make the maneuver all but impossible - but after the initial complaint the coffee seems to be a hit.  
  
Then again, “This coffee is terrible.”  
  
“It’s instant.” Steve slides down the wall to sit opposite him. “You broke the coffee pot.”  
  
“I did, didn’t I.” Tony sighs. “I hate it when you’re right.”  
  
Steve lets that go. _Pick your battles_. “You need a doctor.”  
  
“FRIDAY already did a scan. Ribs are just bruised. All the doctors are going to do is retape them and hand me some Tylenol.”  
  
“Then let them.”  
  
“Nah.” Tony closes his eyes to concentrate on another sip of coffee. “It’s not that bad.”  
  
It’s a wonder Stark’s lies fool anyone. Steve doesn’t really want to hurt him, he just wants to prove his point so he reaches across the gulf between them and presses two finger to the blue of Stark’s ribs -  
  
Tony’s eyes fly open as he inhales sharply and bats Steve’s hand away, _hard_. “You know, our relationship would make more sense if I thought you were an actual sadist.”  
  
“I’m not,” Steve remembers pain, hates these days that he seems to so easily inflict it, “and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”  
  
Stark’s stare is steady. “Of course you don’t. You just chased me down and dug your fingers into my side because you thought it would _tickle_.”  
  
Steve feels his face grow hot. “If you’d told me it was that bad - ”  
  
“- oh, so it’s my _fault_ \- “  
  
Steve speaks over him, “ - It’s AIM’s fault your ribs are injured and it’s my fault for aggravating them,” he swallows, “but _yes_ it’s yours for skipping Medical. That’s your responsibility _to the Team_. They rely on you. You owe it to them to take care of yourself. You can’t just hole up in your lab and wait out the bleeding. Enduring pain when you don’t have to isn’t noble, it’s _indulgent_.” Stark flinches and Steve finds himself transfixed by a discarded piece of armour. “People want to help you, Tony. Take it, it might not be around forever.”  
  
Tony lets Steve’s words linger, then he tips his head back against the wall, exposing the column of his throat. “Why the hell are you still giving me this speech, Cap?”  
  
The nickname sparks something nearly dead in Steve’s heart. “Because it clearly hasn’t sunk in yet. Go to Medical.”  
  
“And tell them what?”  
  
“Give them FRIDAY’s scan of your ribs."    
  
“What about the rest of it?” Tony’s expression isn’t unkind, just curious. “They’re paid to notice bruises and I’ve picked up a couple of interesting ones. You must have noticed.” A shiver runs down Steve’s spine and it doesn’t escape Tony. “Yeah. You should see the ones around my forearms.”  
  
Guilt hits Steve like a sledgehammer. “It won’t happen again.”  
  
Tony just gives an amused snort. “What makes you think this is the first time?”  
  
Steve feels like he’s drowning in three feet of water. He tries to remember every bit of frustration that ever leaked out onto Stark's skin, tries to guess how many bruises he’s laid. They’ve _encountered_ one another once or twice a week for the past two months.  
  
Stark runs a hand over his face. “I lied to the docs two weeks ago. I don't think they believed me. Earth’s mightiest heroes aren’t allowed rough sex apparently. Looking like this twice in under a month is just going to lead to some very awkward questions."

“ _Dammit Tony_.” He didn’t know. It’s not like they’re actually sleeping together - they barely get undressed half the time. He doesn’t see Stark naked often enough to keep track of scrapes and bumps. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Tony hears a rebuke where there isn’t any. “Look Rogers, I don’t care. I like it even,” he adds with a wolfish grin but Steve doesn’t know if he can afford to believe it. “AIM just has shitty timing and got in a lucky shot. Medical won’t miss me.”  
  
“Tell them the truth,” Steve says hoarsely, surprising them both. “If they ask, tell them it’s me.”

Tony's expression shuts down. “No.”  
  
Steve’s already committed. “Listen, if people have to know about… _this_ for you to get help then I don’t care.”  
  
“Well, _I do_.” Steve’s taken aback by the vehemence in Tony’s voice. “Just how do you expect me to explain any of this? _Christ_.”  
  
It’s not comforting that Tony can’t put it into words. Steve tries to hide his relief their secret stays buried. He goes back to the kitchen and returns with a First Aid kit and a second mug of instant coffee.  
  
“Here’s my offer,” Steve’s voice is hollow and he feels another sliver of himself give way, “you let me retape your side and you tell Natasha you’re out with bruised ribs. FRIDAY sends her updates about your condition.” He presents the extra coffee. “That’s the best I can do.”  
  
It’s pitiful and paltry, and it barely scrapes by ethically but it’s the most Steve can offer that Tony still has a chance of accepting. If this is compromise then if feels like failing. Tony looks as unhappy and trapped as Steve feels but he nods. The outstretched coffee remains untouched until Steve places it on the floor for Stark to pick up, the minor adjustment serving as another reminder of far they are from _okay_.  
  
Steve unwinds tape and watches Stark swallow two painkillers dry. For once Tony sits perfectly still. Steve is unerringly careful; fingers cautious and gentle, but the damage is already done. He never hurts Stark intentionally but he is never as careful as he could have been and that's their entire history isn’t it?  
  
_It should be a messier,_ Steve thinks as he wraps white tape across skin.  
  
But that’s the nature of bruises: all the bleeding is done on the inside.  
  
——————————

All Steve's thoughts of Stark are eclipsed by Bucky by the end of November. The Winter Soldier starts regressing and doesn’t stop.

At first no one but Steve is concerned. Dr. Tanaka says _healing isn’t linear_ and _we'll try again tomorrow_ but eventually even the most optimistic have to admit there’s a deterioration. The Winter Soldier's programming doesn’t emerge in full but Bucky slips more often and more often into fugue states. He collapses entirely inward, refusing to open up except to repeat the Soldier’s last designation in a singular, robotic monotone. He hasn’t worn the arm for two weeks and counting. No one believes his refusal has anything to do with physical discomfort.  
  
It’s no secret _why_ Bucky’s shutting down either.  
  
“He’s buckling under the strain,” Dr. Tanaka says after another week has passed.  
  
“Of what?”  
  
Tanaka blinks like it’s obvious. “His guilt, of course. We’ve tried to emphasize living in the present but he still stumbles around anniversaries.” They stare at Bucky through the glass and Steve hates that it feels like they’re ogling an exhibit at a zoo. “The reappearance of the Soldier is a stress reaction. Unlike previous incidents Sgt. Barnes can’t seem to deal with this spike consciously so he’s slipping into a dissociative state.”  
  
“Is there any risk his last mission will reactivate?” Natasha asks sparing a glance at Steve.  
  
“We don’t believe so. The programming isn’t asserting itself so much as Sgt. Barnes is unconsciously taking refuge in those mechanisms that dull his emotional state.”  
  
“How long will he be like this?” Steve asks, unable to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s fitful sleep.  
  
“We expect continued deterioration until the 16th, that’s the anniversary. Knowing Tony Stark’s in the building can’t help, but it is what it is…”    
  
Dr. Tanaka keeps talking but Steve hears nothing but a high-pitched, faraway ringing in his own ears. December 16th, 1991. _The Starks_. He’s vaguely aware of Natasha stepping up to cover for him.  
  
“You forgot,” she says once the doctor leaves. It might be an accusation, Steve can’t stop his head spinning long enough to tell.  
  
He’d been so preoccupied with compartmentalizing Bucky and Tony in his mind that he’d forgotten they’re linked in reality in irrevocable ways. “It’s only the 10th.” It sounds like an excuse.    
  
Natasha nods towards the man in the cell. “It won’t be pretty." It’s said too sagely for it to be entirely hypothetical to her. "He’ll need you after.”  
  
“I’m not leaving,” Steve promises. He rubs his eyes. “Tony - “  
  
“I’ll deal with Tony.” Her voice, belying her words, is soft. She shifts her gaze to Steve’s face. It’s a warning. “Don’t go looking for him.”  
  
Steve has no idea what he'd say. Stark had been caustically indifferent to Bucky’s health crisis and Steve had been angry. Not the type of angry that ended in sex but the type that ended with him storming out, righteous fury burning under his skin. Stark must have figured out by now that Steve had forgotten. Or maybe he just thinks Steve remembered and doesn’t care. Either option makes him feel sick.  
  
“I won’t.” He can’t run after Tony now. Bucky needs him.  
  
He doesn’t know what Natasha does but Stark up and solves any of Steve’s lingering doubts by leaving for California on an extended Christmas vacation. Part of him had hoped that Bucky would relax once Tony wasn't in the same building but it’s December 14th and Natasha’s prediction of Bucky’s worsening slide has come to pass.

“Tony's gone," Steve says. "He wants to spend Christmas in Malibu.”  
  
“Well then, I guess he’s completely forgotten about it,” Bucky says dead-eyed from where he’s just thrown up in the garbage can. Steve allows himself a bit of relief that the sarcasm means Bucky hasn’t retreated into a silent shell of himself.    
  
Their visits take place in a secured room now. Neither of them can pretend that they aren’t being recorded. The exposure makes Steve’s skin crawl but Bucky doesn’t even look alive. His skin is sallow and pale, eyes red-rimmed. He drifts in and out of the perfectly compliant silence that is the Soldier’s default programming. He still eats like clockwork but he can’t keep anything down. Steve would suspect poison if he didn’t know better.  
  
He throws an arm over Bucky's shoulder and tucks himself closer. It reminds him of years ago in Sarah Rogers’s old drafty house when Bucky used to do the same for him when Steve was the one who was sick. It’s not a pleasant memory but it is an important one. Steve was a born fighter but everything he ever learned about caring is owed to one James Buchanan Barnes. There is nothing Steve can do to pay him back for those nights where Bucky did nothing more than believe Steve would wake the next morning.

He wonders if Bucky always felt this helpless.

Bucky shifts away and Steve feels a chill even though the room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

“Don’t come tomorrow," Bucky says and every muscle in Steve’s body tenses. “Just… I need a few days. Thursday, maybe.”  
  
Four days from now, the 18th; skipping over the anniversary completely. Steve knows why Bucky wants this. He understands guilt and the need to keep your wounds from bleeding onto others and like the hypocrite he is Steve still wants Bucky to trust him with all of it.    
  
“I’m not going to leave you.” Steve doesn’t care how weak it sounds, how much it reveals.  
  
“I’ve been leaving you though.” Bucky’s small smile is rueful. “’Sides, the docs are here, I won’t be alone.”  
  
It stings like rejection even though it shouldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says like a broken record.  
  
Bucky ignores him. “Thursday, Stevie.”  
  
What else can he do? He nods. “Thursday.”  
  
Outside the North Wing the Compound is bustling with people. Natasha’s on floor duty, Vision’s out of the country. Rhodes has joined Tony wherever he is and Bucky has his whole production of world class doctors who can help him better than Steve can.

The sixteenth of December is just another day. The agents milling around either don’t know its significance, don’t care or are too professional to express either. There are no emergencies, no attacks. It’s a beautiful sunny day and the Avengers machine carries on, marching to its own relentless internal beat, ever forward. Tony built it well.  
  
Steve's the one who’s stuck. He spends the anniversary of the Starks’ deaths alone in his room, staring at the sullied shield Howard once handed him with all the hope in the world.  
  
——————————

Christmas is better.

As an early gift Natasha gives him illicit night access to the North Wing. _You’ve blown past your curfew anyway_ , she says with a small smile. Then it drops. _I’m trusting you, Steve_. She actually waits for an answer and Steve nods, the keycard heavy in his palm. This is Natasha’s true gift to him: the reminder that his word still holds value, that the promises he makes aren’t worthless.  
  
So Steve spends Christmas Eve in the North Wing with a box of saltines he stole from the common room. It’s barely enough to be a snack for them these days but it would have constituted a feast once upon a time. Crackers and company. Steve has no other gifts to give.

He takes a deep breath and puts all his worries and fears into a small box, shoves it down into the pit of his stomach. “Merry Christmas,” he says with as much cheer as he can manage, extending the box wrapped poorly in today’s newspaper.  
  
Bucky opens the gift carefully and smiles like no one could ever want anything more than tiny squares of baked flour and salt. “Aw, Stevie, you shouldn’t have. It’s just what I always wanted.”  
  
Steve can’t help but laugh at his own inadequacy and Bucky just seems to smile brighter.  
  
They spend the rest of the night sitting on the floor of the session room eating saltines by the sleeve. Bucky’s been doing better, staying present, but not nearly to his previous high mark. He hasn’t put the prosthetic arm back on either.

At some point he pulls on the BARF glasses. Steve expected something more sinister; with wires and sparking electricity and maybe mad cackling in the distance. Instead the glasses just sit oddly on Bucky’s face, too square and modern. Then again the frames weren’t designed for him. They were designed by Tony, for Tony.  
  
“Watch this,” Bucky says and that’s the only warning Steve gets.  
  
Suddenly the session room is flooded with holographic light, engulfing them both. The images shimmer, semi-transparent and fragile. It’s a scene from a Christmas long ago: the dining room of the old house in Brooklyn with the slanted floors and thin windows that let the cold creep in. The table before them is set for a festive dinner, the rug at their feet is threadbare and faded.

Steve’s chest seizes. Holograms are just light; there’s no way Steve can smell the smoke from rendered fat burning, or feel the vibrations through the floorboards from the wheeze of the radio below. He doesn’t need to look to know that around the corner will be the kitchen with the single basin sink and immaculate dishes. Upstairs will be Steve’s room with his mother’s just down the hall...  
  
In front of him is a brown-haired boy of about twelve. Young and whole, and with no idea of what the world will take from him.

The blond boy next to him is small, thin, sickly. Happy.  
  
Why can’t Steve _breathe_ _?_  
  
The scene dissolves piecewise: first the house, then young Bucky, then young Steve. Erased until all that remains is empty space and an ache between ribs.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says solemnly. “I didn’t…” he trails off like the words have evaporated along with the holograms. “It’s a good memory for me, I didn’t think that it might not be one for you.”  
  
_That’s not what it is_. For so long none of it was real. Steve had carried the past with him like a scar nobody could see. He’d begun to think he’d imagined it: all the good parts and all the bad; like it was a particularly vivid story written down in a book, like it wasn’t his _life_.  
  
They were real once. Him and Bucky. Before.     
  
Steve slowly takes the glasses from Bucky’s loose grip and fits them over his face. Interfacing with machines has never come naturally to him in the way it does to Stark or was foisted on Bucky. Suddenly there’s a cool hand on his temple and Steve freezes as Bucky adjusts the sensors. The same Christmas scene reveals itself, taken this time from Steve’s memories. It’s incomplete, the holograms catch. The figures and solids bleed into each other.  
  
“Don’t focus on the memory,” Bucky sounds like he did a lifetime ago when he had all the answers and Steve had none, “focus on the feeling, the system does the rest. That’s the point.”  
  
Steve closes his eyes behind the tinted lenses (and why exactly they’re tinted, he has no idea) and lets himself think of nothing but how Christmas used to be a bright spot: midnight mass and cheap presents, and for a day even the cold seemed kind.  The scene refocuses. It’s solider than Bucky’s version; the wood has knots, the wallpaper has seams. Their younger selves are the exceptions: they’re as see-through as ghosts. Steve doesn’t try to revive them. He concentrates on the elation of Christmas. His mother’s voice floats in from the back door and hearing it outside his own head is the best and worst thing he could have imagined.    
  
_Guess what I just picked up,_ Sarah Rogers says with a mischievous grin, snowflakes still melting in her hair. She sets the brown bag down and the ghost boys race over because they’re young enough to still believe in miracles. She unwraps a large turkey, plucked and pink and -  
  
“No.” Bucky’s voice is loud and almost vicious. Steve startles and the holograms freeze. “That never happened. The butcher shop was closed, she couldn’t afford anything anyway. She came home with… with…” Bucky looks at Steve a little desperately, like he’s questioning his own memories again.  
  
All Steve's missteps start like this, a concession to comfort and kindness. “I know.”  
  
The hologram resets and plays out again except this time Steve gets front row seats to the pained expression on his mother’s face when her son and his friend can’t hide their disappointment when she brings home nothing more than salted licorice as a treat for after dinner.  
  
The session room reasserts itself. His mother dissolves last, lingering. It could drive a man mad to see his life through these glasses. Steve could replay every instant of his life. Every poor decision, every regret. He can go dancing with Peggy and catch Bucky from falling but it won’t be worth the tradeoff of seeing the truth laid bare in his own memories. Of having the nostalgia peeled off his childhood and opening the endless doors of paths not taken.

Steve should have remembered the double-edged nature of all things Stark. BARF is both a therapeutic tool and a torture device. Who doesn’t crave emotional catharsis? That’s the temptation but beyond it Steve can see the bottomless pit of self-recrimination waiting. It’s a Faustian bargain; knowledge for your soul.

A _what if_ machine. The perfect self-imposed penance for a futurist haunted by the past.  
  
_Tony, what have you done?_  
  
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says in a small voice, drawing Steve back to the present. This was supposed to be Bucky’s Christmas gift to him. A shared memory from the past.  
  
“Thank you,” Steve says and finds he means it. “I hadn’t seen her in..." Absent the immediacy of the sting he can feel a warm thaw in his chest. “Thank you.”  
  
“You shouldn’t thank me. They’re not mine.”  
  
They’re Stark’s. Just like they’re eating Stark’s crackers and living in his house. It’s objectively better than their old, cold place in Brooklyn but it could be so much better. It’s been eight months and the Avengers can’t even manage to be in the same building for Christmas.  
  
When Steve opens his eyes he’s greeted to a different holographic display. It’s a Christmas that never - and could never - happen. Sarah Rogers was dead by the time her son left for the army, there’s no way she could by talking to Peggy who looks as vibrant as the day Steve first met her. On the love seat to their left are the Bartons; Clint and Laura restraining Cooper and Lila from darting for the presents beneath the oversized Christmas tree. Natasha has a fascinated Nathaniel slung over her left hip as she chats with Pepper.  
  
Howard and Tony are in sync, looking too much alike with their dark hair and white smiles as they chuckle at the chaos. Fury and Maria are dressed down in civilian clothes and oblivious to the mistletoe above them. Dum Dum, Gabe and Sam are chatting about baseball in the corner. Near the buffet Wanda and Pietro are extolling to Vision the virtues of cake. Bruce has his head buried in the fridge as he carries on a conversation with Erskine and Selvig. Helen Cho is being charmed by Thor and Rhodes interrupts his conversation with Jane Foster to stride across the room on unbroken legs to grab them both a drink. Darcy Lewis is attempting to induct T’challa into the spirit of Christmas through the use of felt reindeer antlers. Bucky’s there too; with shorter hair, an enlisted man’s uniform and a grin.  
  
The scene is glitchy in addition to impossible. The glasses aren’t meant to splice together so many individual memories. Limbs pass through each other, feet don’t touch the floor, but it almost doesn’t matter because the _feeling_ is there.  
  
“Stevie…” Bucky warns. The real Bucky, the one beside Steve across the empty space where his arm used to be.  
  
The scene starts to fall off kilter. Wanda screams when Pietro dies. Rhodes falls to the floor like a marionette with his strings cut. Howard and Tony have turned on each other, arguing with loud voices and each with a drink in hand. The Barton children are crying but their parents are nowhere to be found. Natasha, Fury and Hill are back in their SHIELD blacks, shouting orders. T’challa pulls his mask over his face while Bucky, with blank eyes but that same grin, picks up a gun and -

It’s Tony’s hologram that fades last, eyes still furious and accusatory before dissolving into static. Steve rips the glasses off. They crack in his fist. He’s not sure it’s an accident.  
  
“How is he?” Bucky asks tentatively. _He_ could only mean Tony.  
  
“I don’t know,” Steve croaks. His Christmas break from Stark started at the same time as everyone else’s. “According to the papers he got himself into a bar fight in Philadelphia and bought a baseball team.”  
  
“ _Really?”_  
  
He sometimes forgets Bucky doesn’t really know Tony at all, even by reputation. “Yeah.”  
  
“Do you think he’s spending tomorrow alone?” Bucky asks the empty room. “Doesn’t seem fair if he is.”

Christmas. Alone. “No - God, no. Tony’s got people. You don’t need to feel bad - You don’t need to worry about Stark. He can take care of himself.” _Mostly_ , except for the mounting evidence that he can’t.  
  
If you had asked Steve six years ago he’d have said Tony was like Thor - distant and godlike and occupying an entirely different sphere of life. Steve had been responsible for the others: Sam, Clint, Wanda… even Natasha eventually. They were his team. Tony was part of that team but he was never _Steve’s_. Tony was his own. _Tony should have been fine._  
  
“He’s fine,” Steve echoes, trying to will himself into belief.  
  
Bucky says nothing, just stares at the white wall. The silence is the start of the spiral. The spark in his eyes is replaced by a flat expression of disinterest. Steve silently starts gathering the box of crackers and the garbage. This isn’t how he wanted the night to end.  
  
The BARF glasses have slipped to the floor. The black frames are in pieces now. Irreparable.  
   
——————————

Stark comes back to the Compound two days after Christmas dragging a trail of tabloid headlines. They’re nothing extraordinary by Starkian standards: a fling, a fight, some trespassing. The gravestone of a former SI president gets vandalized in Boston. Stark’s new mansion in Malibu is rumored to have three secure underground bunkers. There’s an online petition to revoke Stark’s key to the city in Philadelphia. There’s another to get him charged with treason.

Steve knows well enough that it’s all exaggeration, just journos filling dead space before the New Year, except the Avengers have to be above reproach. The line they’re walking is too thin. Tony knows this but doesn’t seem to care.  
  
Steve feels the familiar urge to seek him out and set him straight but Natasha beats him to it. She has Tony cornered on the balcony overlooking the meadows. There’s no one else around to rescue him save Steve who’s tucked well out of sight.  
  
“Coffee?” Tony asks mock cheerfully, offering his mug like he isn’t still in yesterday’s suit.  
  
Natasha doesn’t even look down. “That depends on what else you’ve put in it.”  
  
“Nothing. One-hundred-percent alcohol free and black as your soul, Widow. I withdraw my offer, you can get your own coffee.”  
  
“Stop this.” Her voice brooks no argument so of course Tony makes it into one.  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
Natasha shoots him a glare that would kill lesser men.     
  
“The newspapers?” he guesses. “That’s what’s really bothering you right? The part that affects _you_.” Natasha doesn’t react and Stark just shrugs. “They’ll get bored. _Tony Stark behaving badly_ isn’t news. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”  
  
“The Avengers can’t afford for you to be _you_ right now.” There’s no way Natasha misses the way Tony suppresses a flinch. “We need you here, sober, and not in Boston blowing up tombstones.”  
  
“Tombstone. Singular,” Tony corrects, “and the he deserved it.”  
  
“Tony.”  
  
“Natalie.”  
  
Her posture subtly changes, it’s her training taking over but her voice betrays her. It’s low and scratchy, _angry_. “I can have you grounded whenever I want Stark, you’ve given me enough reasons, but you are not leaving me to do this alone. If you aren’t going to show up to fix this mess then why should I? You’re not the only one with better offers.”    
  
Steve wonders if she means Clint or SHIELD or if she’ll just disappear back into the ether.  
  
Stark shoots her a nasty look. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”  
  
“Well I know exactly what you’re doing and it stops here. We need you,” Natasha says sharply, without sentimentality, but underneath Steve can sense her desperation.  
  
It goes unheard.

“No, you need Iron Man and you need money.” Stark holds out his arms to expose his disheveled clothing. “This is the cost. You knew it going in. Even wrote a report on it.”  
     
Natasha is too good a spy to fall for Stark’s distractions. “Making me Team Leader doesn’t mean you get to fall apart.”  
  
“Well I wanted Rhodey but realistically who else were we gonna nominate? Viz occasionally forgets humans can’t phase through walls. You were not my first choice.”  
  
“I saw the request sheet.” Tony stills and Natasha waits five agonizing seconds for him to look at her. Her voice could cut glass. “I won’t to do this alone.”  
  
“Touching. What are the rest of the Avengers? Chopped liver?"  
  
“I refuse to do this without you.”  
  
There’s a moment of tension, the ultimatum vibrating between them.

“Well who could say no to you?” Tony smiles but there’s nothing funny to be found. “Keep my nose clean and no drinking. Done. Anything else you need from me, _Boss?”_ The word sounds like a punishment. “Cold fusion and flying cars? No?” He’s already brushing past Natasha to leave. “Cap always gave better lectures. Maybe he can give you some pointers.”  
  
Tony is almost far enough away before Natasha’s voice rings out, “You’ve been giving him quite a few.”  
  
Stark stops walking and Steve knows exactly what he’s feeling, heart plummeting, because Steve feels it too.

_She knows._

He feels his face flush because realistically how long did they think they were going to get away with it? Sneaking around like teenagers and not like two grown men in a building packed with spies.  
  
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” Stark tries.    
  
“Stop what you’re doing to Steve.” Natasha’s voice is serious to the core.  
  
“Stop what I’m doing _to_ him?” Stark shakes his head. “Because I’m corrupting him, right? I’m trying to get him to come to the dark side for the orgasms. Couldn’t just be that Rogers needs to bleed off some aggression every once in awhile.”  
  
“Whatever it is, it stops here,” Natasha says coldly. “He doesn’t need someone messing with his head. You can hurt him - I know you don’t think so - but you can. And you will.”  
  
“ _He_ started it,” Stark interjects snidely.  
  
“ _I don’t care._ You’re the one who’s going to end it,” she says harshly and then softens. “Steve’s been more… withdrawn since he came back. Probably since before. You’d have noticed if you’d been paying attention.”  
  
Tony just looks at her darkly. “I had better things to do.”  
  
“I saw the headlines,” Natasha retorts dryly, “but this isn’t about you. What you and Steve get up to has little to do with you and everything to do with James.”  
  
_Bucky. She knows about Bucky._ It feels like Steve’s insides are being wrung out and exposed in front of an audience. _She knows about Bucky and now Stark does too._  
  
Tony doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest. “Then he should stop screwing me and go fuck the one-armed bastard instead.”  
  
Steve’s fists clench in automatic reflex because _it’s not like that_ and how dare Stark suggest it is.  
  
“It doesn’t matter what Steve should do. You’re the one taking advantage - ”  
  
Stark throws his hands up. “- well, far be it from me to argue with you about the morality of _taking fucking advantage_ \- ”  
  
Natasha’s mask hardens again. “For all intents and purposes you’re his jailer. He’s stuck here. He needs you.”  
  
“You don’t really believe that do you? This is you trying to manipulate me, right? Have you ever _met_ Rogers? He has absolutely zero problems saying no to me regardless of the consequences, up to and including breaking international law and going on the lam. Barring that, he’s a super soldier with at least 40 pounds of muscle on me and last time even the suit didn’t stop him.”  
  
Natasha's unimpressed. “You could call the Joint Task Force, the US military, and the UN down on his head if he ran and we both know Steve wouldn’t hurt you deliberately.”  
  
There’s a pregnant pause like Tony can’t even believe what he’s just heard. Then he laughs. The terrible, hollow laugh they all heard after the creation of Ultron.  
  
“Of course he would. In a heartbeat,” Tony says, eyes wide and incredulous, like he’s pointing out the obvious. “The moment I got in his way he’d knock me down and climb right over me, or strand me in space, or leave me in - ”  
  
_Tony can’t possibly think that, can he?_  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes and Steve winces. “Stop being dramatic. Steve lied to protect you. We both did. He’s always pulled his punches with you. Barnes is the one missing an arm - ”  
  
“Rogers nearly took my head off in Siberia.”

Tony knuckles are white around the handle of his coffee mug. “He beat me so hard my helmet cracked open, aimed for my head and then drove my father’s last gift to him an inch and a half deep into the arc reactor because your shared secret blew up in everyone’s faces.” His left hand is shaking uncontrollably. “ _So you don’t get to stand there and tell me what Steve Rogers wouldn’t do_ , and if you think you’re any higher on his list of priorities you’re even more gullible than me.”  
  
Natasha’s eyes lock with his over Tony’s shoulder because _of course_ she already knew Steve was there. In the space of a single glance he desperately wills everything he wants to say across the distance between them. _You’re my friend, Natasha. I would never…_    
  
Her focus shifts back to the man in front of her. Tony’s gripping his left wrist like he could strangle the spasms away. “God dammit.”

Natasha tentatively reaches out. It’s a rare gesture these days, pale hand curving over his shoulder. Tony shrugs off her hand like it offends him and it burns Steve to see something genuine rejected with so much contempt.  
  
“What? You expect me to believe you’re on my side again?” When he speaks again his voice is calm. “I knew better than to trust you the second time. I _knew_ but I did it anyway because I’m an idiot and you…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “So this time ‘round I know. The moment Steve Rogers decides he’s done with me he’s going to pick up Barnes in whatever hopefully non-homicidal state he’s in and you’re going to hand him the keys to a Quinjet.” Steve heart swells when Natasha doesn’t dispute it. Stark nods like he expected nothing else. “You’ll manage to land on your feet I’m sure, and I’ll be here: sober and ready to suit up. That good enough for you?”  
  
“I’m not just protecting him.” Steve can almost see the thin threads in Natasha's hands as she tries to hold them all together. “You two can hurt each other too easily,” her voice is tired and brittle, “but you’re the one who bruises.”    
  
Tony doesn’t argue that point, like he thinks Steve has walked away unscathed from every fight simply because his skin doesn't hold onto pain.

“You know what pisses me off the most?" he asks hoarsely. "You keep pretending like you didn’t choose him then and you aren’t choosing him now. The Avengers matter to you - great - but stop pretending you’re looking out for me. You’re here for Rogers, Rogers is here for Barnes, and Barnes is here despite my previous best efforts. You and I aren’t friends, Widow.” Regret colours his voice. “We had our chance.”    
  
Natasha’s silent for a moment, still calm and collected. Outside there’s a thin layer of frost still on the ground. You could be fooled into calling it snow.  
  
“It wasn’t about choosing,” she says haltingly. “It was about doing the right thing.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony says with contempt as he turns and walks away, “and what the hell would you know about that?”  
  
Steve hears the door shut and slowly makes his way down the rest of the stairs. Natasha is still staring out at the undisturbed meadow, her pale fingers resting lightly on the railing. He’s careful to keep a few feet between them.

“Tony’s just angry, he didn’t mean any of it.” Steve owes her so much more than platitudes for making her choose. “You’re one of the best people I know. It was unfair, not trusting you from the beginning. I’m sorry.” He swallows. “You had faith in me and I didn’t show that I had the same faith in you. But I trust you, Natasha. Please tell me you know that.”  
  
The words come easily because he believes in her. He doesn’t know all the pieces of herself she keeps buried but he believes in _her_ ; her ability to overcome, to conquer. He slides his hand across the railing, palm up in silent offering. When her hands remain clasped around the metal he tries to hide his disappointment. He aches for the connection Tony threw away without thought.  
  
“You’re my friend,” he says staunchly but desperation bleeds into his voice. He knows how easily friends slip through your fingers. “Please believe me.”  
  
Natasha is still staring out at the barren ground. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re always honest, aren’t you, Steve?”  
  
Her words strike like a knife lovingly slid between two ribs. How many times does a man have to be untruthful before he’s no longer an honest man? _One more time than he can justify to himself._ Steve’s reached the end of his rope. He never anticipated how hard it would be to climb up again.  
  
“I promise I’ll stay away from him,” Steve says even though she didn’t ask it of him. She’d asked it of Tony.  
  
She keeps staring out at the horizon, green eyes dull and a million miles away. Steve knows she doesn’t believe him.  
  
Why would she? The Black Widow is a spy and Steve is not an honest man.    
  
——————

Stark’s fight with Natasha has nothing on the blowout that occurs a week later when Rhodes gets back.

Every other Thursday Jim makes sure to pin Tony down and make him eat and talk. There’s an art to it that none of the other Avengers ever really learned. It seemed the epitome of prima donna behaviour to have your best friend jump through so many hoops for the honour of spending time with you. _Stark-wrangling_ , Clint called it once with good humour. The last time Steve had seen Clint he’d said it in a tone a good deal darker.

Still, Steve breathes easier Friday mornings knowing that Rhodes was here the night before. He’s pretty sure it’s the only thing holding Stark together so Steve always errs on the side of good manners and gives them space.

Tonight Vision is back which means Steve has the pleasure of eating over-seasoned and under-baked lasagna from a paper plate in the kitchen while Jim and Tony have a blowout fight in the dining room. They’re loud behind the closed doors. Vision seems utterly unperturbed but Steve’s sensitive hearing goes to war with his good judgement when it comes to how much he listens in.  
  
“Or what?!” A muffled voice yells. There’s the bass thump of something hitting carpet. “What are you going to do?”  
  
Rhodes mutters something indistinct and Tony clearly isn’t having it because he gives a high-pitched laugh and that precedes nothing good. Steve’s blood boils, ready to stride in and -  
  
“Seconds, Captain Rogers?” Vision asks like nothing’s wrong. As if they’re not witnessing Stark’s last, oldest pillar of support crumbling and aren’t housed under his unstable roof.    
  
Steve accepts without thinking, letting the actual words of the argument float in one ear and out the other; a skill he honed growing up with too thin walls where the illusion of privacy had to make do for the real thing. The muffled fight reminds him of when he was young; his father would return home, drunk and disorderly, and his mother was awake and waiting. He feels as helpless now as he did then.

He only catches fragments of phrases. How Rhodes isn’t smart enough to build his own suit. How Tony’s not deserving of one. _Arrogance, volatility, alcoholism_. Stark brings up someone named Nadia and Rhodes shouts a very distinct, _leave her out of this_. It’s every dark accusation Steve has ever wanted to hurl at Stark but packing more weight because they’re coming from someone Tony still respects.  
  
Oh Steve’s seen Rhodes angry - he’s even seen him pissed at Tony on more than one occasion - but he’s never heard him climb down into the mud-slinging contest that is fighting with Tony over something that you think matters and that he thinks doesn’t. Now Steve knows that he is not the exception; better men are reduced to it too.  
  
There’s a loud smash and Steve tenses, every muscle in his body singing with the call to action. There’s not much he can do if they armour up. Tony can call the suit at any time. Rhodes can too. Steve would be going in blind and unarmed. Vision though - Vision is powerful enough to phase through the wall and pull them apart with ease, so why hasn’t he?  
  
“Are they…” Steve starts and finds his voice is hushed and small, “okay?”  
  
The smooth synthetic face of crimson and green stares at him intently. “I do not know,” Vision replies in JARVIS’s voice but with more hesitation than the AI ever displayed. His eyes are gold; open and brilliant. “I can stop them, if that is what you believe would help.”  
  
It’s then that Steve realizes Vision doesn’t know what to do either.  
  
“Captain?” Vision prompts. He doesn’t take orders from Steve anymore but the irony is he trusts Steve’s judgement in this: to know when the line is crossed between an argument between friends and a fight that desperately needs an intervention. Steve has no idea where that line is. Especially when it involves Tony.  
  
He clears his throat, aiming for authoritative. “Make sure neither of them gets into a suit.”  
  
Vision nods like Steve’s made a wise decision and hasn’t just stated the obvious. The android serves him a third helping of lasagna because soothing emotional distress with comfort food is another accidental lesson that’s stuck. Steve eats mechanically and lets the angry voices wash over him in waves.

The argument lasts all of twenty minutes from start to finish. It may as well be years.  
  
———————————

The silence that befalls the Compound immediately afterward is deafening. Steve watches from his suite window as an ordinary yellow taxi pulls up and Rhodes stumbles toward it, duffle bag throwing off his balance on his exoskeletal legs. A humanoid shadow walks up behind him and Steve’s hopes lift for a moment only to be dashed. It’s not Tony, it’s Vision. The android carries Jim’s bag to the waiting taxi and then the car speeds off, red running lights fading into the night.   
  
It’s hard not to feel that it’s the beginning of the end. The final erosion of who they all once thought they could be. The last friendship not to destabilize the Team has finally broken under the strain. They’re all strangers now: Natasha is functionally a ghost, Sam is functionally a prisoner. Clint is smoke, Scott is missing. Thor and Banner are somewhere only gods and monsters can go. Rhodes has been driven away, Wanda has been kept from home. Vision is learning humanity for the first time and Bucky is learning it for the second.

Steve is frozen and Tony is drowning.  
  
There is nothing for the Avengers to avenge except their own personal hurts and they have torn each other apart.  
  
Stark holds out for all of an hour, plenty of time for Steve's helplessness to turn to anger. There’s a series of sharp raps at his door and part of him is elated at the chance for confrontation. When his better nature prevails, the knocks turn into a pretty solid kick and Steve could never leave well enough alone. He opens the door to give Stark a piece of his mind. He wants to make sure Tony understands exactly how badly he’s messed up tonight. Steve lost his best friend to the war, then Hydra, then to a mess of red tape. Stark drove his away all on his own. If he thinks Steve has even the slightest bit of sympathy for him he’s every bit the entitled bastard Steve first pegged him as.  
  
Tony’s pacing in the half-dark of the corridor, coiled and furious. He’s in a perversion of his normal business attire: jacket missing and left shirtsleeve half-rolled up. His tie is gone and so, mysteriously, are his socks and shoes. His hair isn’t the well-groomed coif he sports in the morning but sticking up in all different directions. Under the glow of the nighttime lighting the line of his jaw is too sharp, over-emphasized by his goatee. The dark of his eyes is alive and fathomless.

Stark’s magnificent in ruin. Glorious in a way Steve never lets himself see: like the angry, destructive hunger of a forest fire is glorious provided you’re not a tree planted in its path. There’s something more genuine in the act of Tony falling apart than there ever is in his triumph. The only bits of him Steve knows he can trust are the ones in pain, in agony, in despair.  
  
Tony twists his lips in derision, makes himself ugly. “I assume you heard.”  
  
“Hard not to.” Steve glares at the insinuation _he_ was the one being inappropriate. “You weren’t quiet.”  
  
Tony keeps pacing the corridor like a man before his execution. “How much?”  
  
“Enough.”  
  
Tony halts and grinds his teeth. Steve can hear it from here. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” he mutters as he finally comes to a stop in front of Steve, nearly chest-to-chest as if their height differential means nothing.    
  
“You haven’t been drinking,” Steve says, mildly surprised. He hadn’t put too much stock in Stark’s promised sobriety.  
  
“You don’t fuck me when I’m drunk,” Tony replies brutally as he tries to brush past Steve into the room.  
  
"No." Steve blocks him. For once this isn’t about a fight between the two of them. For once Stark’s the one reaching out and not the other way around.    
  
Tony’s glaring at him like Steve’s being unfair. “ _Now_ you decide you’re better than this? Your timing is awful.”  
  
Steve doesn’t trust himself with Stark right now. He’s too flush with secondhand anger on Rhodes’ behalf. He pushes Tony lightly by the shoulders (shoulders, never the chest) away from the threshold and back into the opposite wall. All Steve has to do now is step back into his room and shut the door.  
  
“Fine. Have it your way,” Tony growls irritably. He untucks the tail of his shirt and starts undoing buttons, right there in the corridor in the world’s most impersonal striptease.

By the time his fingers arrive at his belt Steve still hasn’t moved. “Stop."  
  
Tony ignores him but makes no move forward, just shucks his shirt to the floor and kicks off his trousers. His fingers hook under the waistband of his underwear and before long those join the rest of his clothes on the linoleum. He leans against the back wall, pupils too large in the darkness, swallowing the irises whole. The eyes of a man who has gazed for too long into the abyss and has begun to carry it around with him.

His voice is scratchy. “Are you really going to make me beg?”  
  
Steve’s seen Tony beg. He’s seen him plead and appeal to Steve’s higher nature, sincerity etched in every feature. It’s awful to hear a man so proud grovel and awfuller to know it has never worked. “I said no.”  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
Steve thinks of bruises and promises. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“It does to me.” Tony’s eyes narrow. “Your sudden devotion to _not sleeping with the enemy_ is inconvenient.”  
  
“You’re not the enemy.”  
  
_“Thanks.”_  
  
Steve ignores the edge in his voice. “We can’t keep doing this.”  
  
“Your conscience never bothered you before so what - _oh_ ,” Tony alights on the answer. “It’s not that at all. The Golden Child got a speech from Natasha too.”  
  
“She’s right.” Steve can see the single vibrating string holding all of Tony together. “This can’t end well.”    
  
“What are we losing? Our fantastic working relationship? Our friendship built on mutual trust and respect?” Stark counts them off like those were never things they had and lost. “C’mon Captain America, save me from myself. Pep’s gone, Rhodey’s gone. There’s a bottle of scotch upstairs screaming at me and there’s nothing in my workshop anyone wants me playing with right now.” Stark’s voice is unsteady. “If it helps don’t think of it as doing me a favour, think of it as saving the world from me.”

The safety zone is one step and a heavy door away but it may as well be miles. “I made a promise.” Steve grips it like a lifeline.  
  
“Break it,” Stark says casually. “Blame me.”  
  
“ _I do._ ”   
  
For a moment Tony’s expression is openly miserable before it slides into resignation. “ _Finally he admits it_.”  
  
Steve resents the implication and the poison that lives under his skin spills out. “Why shouldn’t I? You willed all of this into existence; this team, the Accords, _everything_ , right down to me being trapped here with you. You got the future you wanted,” he falters, “and I _hate_ it.”

It hurts to admit out loud just how much Tony still gets to him. 

“I know,” Stark says, surprisingly sympathetic and his lips quirk sadly. Then, casually, horribly, he spreads his arms wide in offering, baring his weak points. “ _Show me._ ”  
  
This isn’t seduction, this is something worse. It itches under Steve’s skin just the same. His eyes track over tan, scarred, blank skin but he keeps his distance. Tony huffs and walks up to him with characteristic overconfidence bordering on the suicidal. Like Steve couldn’t crush him and hasn’t before.  
  
“Fine.” Stark scowls as he stares down the hall at something that isn’t there. “We always have to have things your way.”  
  
That’s all the warning Steve gets before Stark socks him. A sucker punch to the left side of his unguarded torso. It hurts.

The first time he touches Tony in 27 days is in violence. He drives both of them across corridor before either has a chance to blink. Stark’s head hits the back wall hard enough that his teeth click violently. Steve doesn’t give him any time to recover. He spins Stark around, twists his arm behind his back as Steve’s other hand presses at the nape of Tony’s neck, forcing his head into the wall. The grip around Stark’s wrist will bruise, the one at the base of his skull is gentler but not by much. He’s being forced to his toes by the position of his arm and Steve’s body is preventing him from getting any leverage.  
  
It takes Steve a moment to realize the loud, harsh breathing in the empty hallway is coming from him. The skin where Stark’s punch landed throbs in sympathy with his racing heartbeat. The buzz of adrenaline in his system is a massive overreaction: there’s no true threat here.

 _This is the edge,_ the sane line of Steve’s thoughts pierces though the deluge of physical instinct, _h_ _old it._  
  
“Getting sucker punched isn’t fun is it,” Tony pants, scrambling to find purchase where there is none. “That’s what it felt like,” there’s a flash of teeth, “in Siberia.”  
  
They tip over the edge.

The hand on Stark’s neck bites in hard as Steve spins him back around and devours his mouth before he can make things worse. This time Tony’s no help whatsoever. He can’t get away pinned under Steve’s weight but he struggles just the same. It stops being exhilarating almost immediately; goes from a whirlwind rush of lust to a slog through the motions. Joints bang at odd angles against hard floors; skin is rubbed raw. Under him Tony is sweating and still cold to the touch. Steve’s frustration mounts.  
  
“Difficult when no one gives you the slightest bit of cooperation, isn’t it?” Tony says, panting in effort.  
  
“Shut up,” Steve growls. At least Stark’s erection is interested in the proceedings because Steve’s lost hope of this being any comfort to either of them.  
  
“Make me,” Tony grits outs with the tiniest hitch in breath and it sounds like a sob.  
  
Steve doesn’t know how to gag anyone safely. And besides, he needs to be able to hear Stark speak because he still clings to the hope Tony might say _Steve_ , or _Stop_ , or _I don’t need this_. Some acknowledgement that Rhodes leaving hurts but that this isn’t what he needs. Not for the first time Steve thinks he’d trade sex with Tony for the ability to just… talk.

The fact that he manages to get both of them off is a credit to his determination more than his skill but for a solitary moment after orgasm Tony looks a little less like a force of nature and a little more human. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Steve’s skin feels dirty and too tight, covered in grimy sweat from the silt on the floor. He offers Stark a hand up but instead Tony drags himself to sit with his back to the wall; exhausted.  
  
“Tony…” Steve searches for words of comfort, “Jim will - ”  
  
“We don’t talk after.” Tony looks up with unseeing eyes. “That’s the whole point. Don’t ruin it.”  
  
Iron Man curled naked against the wall is a pitiable enough sight that Steve does as asked. He pauses on the threshold of his room to look back. Stark is shaking, minutely but enough, and it’s not from cold. Steve’s heart aches. Tony wouldn’t want him to see this; so much more intimate than anything they just shared, but any offer of comfort is tainted by their history. It’s still not in Steve to give him privacy, shutting the door feels too much like abandonment.

So Steve watches Tony fall apart and does nothing. Damned by action and inaction alike.  
  
Eventually Tony drops his head into his hands. “Goddammit.” He pulls on his clothes and leaves without another word.

Steve watches him go before retreating. Outside his suite window, Vision stands in the driveway, impervious to the rain. His liquid gold eyes shine in the dark, staring at Steve from 100 paces. Vision could have stopped them. Maybe he should have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter up and done. Weekly updates until it's finished. This is the longest thing I've ever written but I want to actually share it so it 'counts'. I feel like this story could be called _Steve is oblivious to everyone else's problems: the Novel_ at this point.
> 
> Also: that is not how you treat suspected bruised ribs. 
> 
> Comments are welcome and appreciated.


	3. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which strange men appear.  
>  _The corpse at Steve's feet is faceless; as if the artist couldn’t fathom how it felt to die under crashing metal. (It’ll all be worth it later.) He leaves his shield, his uniform, his skin, in a pile at the dead man’s side and doesn’t look back because if he does he’ll be lost._

The days start to blur. With no missions or responsibilities, time slowly slips away from Steve. He no longer wakes with the sun. Instead he stays up to all hours of the night, curfew long since forgotten. He starts marking the passage of time in destroyed punching bags instead of calendars. He runs from dusk til dawn around the rim of the property, orbiting the Compound until its lights call him back.

Then he sleeps like the dead. Twelve hours, thirteen. Another two of just staring at the white ceiling wondering how much longer he can do this. Everyone’s alive, life spins on. All Steve has to do to preserve this truce between himself, Tony, and the world is _nothing_ and it’s killing him. Nothing so dramatic as murder but the lack of purpose is hollowing him out one spoonful at a time.  
  
He tries to fill himself back up with other things: Bucky’s smiles, video chats with Wanda, Vision’s terrible food, walks with Natasha. When it gets too much he picks fights with Tony and tells himself it’s in service of a righteous cause. As if Tony is the keystone and if Steve can just get him onside then the rest will fall back into place. They’ll get back what they had and who they were.

Instead he gets harsh words and an orgasm as a consolation prize.  
  
He haunts the Compound living quarters on the nights he doesn’t visit the North Wing. He sits on the couch and sketches glimpses of a different time. The hairstyle Natasha hasn’t worn in years, a red dress crumpled to the floor atop red shoes, a teddy bear half-burned. He outlines the USO girl who first loved him, her face turned away, already pulling her nylons back on. The tall back of a pitcher on the mound from his first baseball game. The frazzled lines of a dark-haired man curled naked against a wall, knees to chest obscuring scars, head hanging low to hide his face in shadow.

He stops drawing figures after that; sticks to wooden soldiers, dancing monkeys, wind-up ballerinas, tin men.

In the stillness of this place his once called _home_ the loneliness is amplified hundredfold. He becomes accustomed to the solitude so the first time Steve finds himself _not alone_ he barely reacts. His timekeeping isn’t the most precise these days and while the living quarters are separate from the active Avengers floors, they’re not permanently locked off.

This particular stranger is clearly not an agent. He’s old but not stooped, wearing a grey suit and a tan overcoat. His hair is a shocking bundle of well-groomed white and so is his full beard. There’s a slim, silver-topped cane in his left hand and thin-rimmed round glasses on his lined face. He hasn’t seen Steve, his concentration is focused on fumbling his way through making tea. The old-fashioned kettle has been placed on the burner and he starts pulling open cabinets at random, searching for a cup, a saucer, a teabag, a spoon.  
  
For a moment Steve just watches, intrigued. Then his eye catches the cyan numbers flashing on the digital clock: 3:24 am. No one’s supposed to be up here. _Steve’s_ not supposed to be up here.

_Intruder._

“FRIDAY, Code White!”  
  
She doesn’t answer but Steve is already up and moving. The stranger startles, his cane slipping to the wayside as he trips backwards, and Steve’s muscle memory causes him to reach out and catch him before he hits the tile floor. Up close the stranger looks just as old and ill-prepared for a fight as he did from a distance.  
  
“ _Jesus Christ on a **stick** ,_” the stranger swears viciously from the floor, the curse at odds with his dignified portrait. “You take tea seriously ‘round here.”  
  
“Who are you?” Steve doesn't let his guard down or the man up. “What are you doing here?”  
  
The stranger uses his free hand to push his glasses back up his nose. “Do you mind if we talk in the living room?” Steve doesn’t budge. “I promise I’ll answer your questions Captain, I would just like to be off the floor when I do.”  
  
Steve grinds his teeth. FRIDAY hasn’t given any indication she’s heard his alert. Vision and the night staff haven’t come running. No alarms have gone off. Who knows if Natasha or Tony are even in the building. The smart thing to do would be to march the stranger straight down into the Avengers active area but in a stunning display of shooting themselves in the foot, Steve no longer has access to that part of the Compound between the hours of 11 pm and 5 am.  
  
On the stovetop the kettle starts whistling. Time’s up.  
  
“Coat and cane stay on the floor.” Steve’s voice sounds strange to his own ears. He can’t remember when he last spoke to a human being.  
  
The stranger nods. He moves slowly, whether due to age or caution is moot. The cane and overcoat are abandoned and he keeps both hands open and in Steve’s field of view even if he’s otherwise impervious to Steve’s gaze. He lumbers carefully to his feet.  
  
“Tea?” The stranger asks like he’s the host and not the interloper.  
  
“I’m not thirsty.”  
  
The stranger smiles and there’s something placating in it that sets Steve’s teeth on edge. “I meant, may I have my tea?”  
  
Steve can’t think of a good enough reason to deny him. The man moves the kettle off the burner and Steve tenses, anticipating an attack that never comes. The stranger just pours the hot water into the waiting cup.  
  
“Thank you.” The stranger takes his drink and limps into the living room. He slips into the corner seat of the couch and Steve stands opposite, blocking the exits.

“Who are - “  
  
“My name is Dr. Robert Kovalchyk,” the stranger lifts his teacup in acknowledgement, “and you are Captain Steven Rogers.”  
  
“FRIDAY, verify.”  
  
She remains stubbornly mute.  
  
“The AI won’t answer you. It’s been turned off,” the stranger says candidly.  
  
It’s been a long time since Steve’s heard someone refer to FRIDAY as _it_. Tony talks to her like she’s a person and the rest of the Team and Compound follow suit. The fact she’s missing in action raises Steve’s suspicions further.

“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I was thirsty.” The stranger snorts into his tea, another less-than-proper mannerism. “Clearly it was a mistake; serves me right for stealing really. No one told me Captain America slept on the sofa”  
  
“I didn’t mean the kitchen.” Steve’s voice is hard. “What are you doing _here_?”  
  
Teacup hits saucer with a _clink_. “Now we get to the part where I’m less than cooperative. I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”  
  
“You’re going to have to. You aren’t leaving this room until then.” Steve crosses his arms. “I have all night.”  
  
The stranger checks his old clunky watch and winces. “I don’t. My flight departs in two hours but I can realistically only stay for one. Traffic and security and that whole rigamarole.”  
  
Steve smiles, sharp this time. “You’re not going anywhere and I don’t see you holding up too long to the Black Widow. Think of me as practice.”  
  
“So you’re _good cop_?”

“If you like.” Steve's instincts are going haywire. The stranger is clearly holding something back but how much of a danger he poses remains a mystery. He’s not a physical threat - he’s not faking the arthritic tremors in the hands - but if FRIDAY’s truly offline then there’s no way he came through the active floors. Which means he either came from the direction of the Avengers' private quarters or from -  
  
The North Wing. _Bucky_. Every bit of Steve comes alive at once, his muscles tense. “What kind of doctor did you say you were?”  
  
The stranger's smile reveals perfect teeth. “Psychiatrist.”  
  
_Psychiatrist, psychologist, behaviorist_. Steve doesn’t remember the difference but he remembers what Zemo pretended to be and how terribly that went for everyone. Steve was a fool for believing that Stark and the government could keep Bucky safe. If the stranger’s here to activate the Winter Soldier then the Avengers are currently under attack and -  
  
“Breathe, Captain. Just breathe,” the stranger says in a soothing baritone, concern written across his features.  
  
Steve feels his frame vibrating with the effort to keep still. “What did you do to Bucky?”  
  
“I don’t know who that is.”  
  
“James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier.” Steve advances and the stranger retreats into his chair.  
  
“Nothing.” The stranger is still speaking calmly but he’s clearly not as immune to Steve’s intimidation as he’d like everyone to think. “I’m not here to harm anyone. I’m just here to help.” 

Steve’s not falling for it. “Activating him won’t work. The Asset doesn’t exist anymore.” It’s not the whole truth. The trigger words are faded but where Bucky ends and the Soldier begins is much more delicate work. “He’s not your toy anymore.

“Listen - “

"You lost."

"Captain - "  
  
“Stop calling me that!” Steve yells, loudly enough it echoes through the empty rooms.  
  
The elevator dings and both men freeze.

The chrome doors slide open and Tony comes tumbling out into the common area. Steve didn’t even know he was in the building. He’s dressed in his workshop clothes and gets halfway to the kitchen before he squints towards where Steve is looming over the stranger. To Steve’s eternal surprise the next thing out of Tony’s mouth is not directed at him.

“Why the hell are you still here, Doc? You have a plane to catch.”  
  
The stranger doesn’t seem perturbed by Tony's miraculous appearance. “I thought I’d have some tea. I apologize for the mess in your kitchen.”  
  
Steve automatically falls back to keep both Stark and the stranger in sight. “Tony, _you know who this is_?”  
  
“Of course,” he introduces them brusquely, “Kovalchyk, Rogers. Rogers, Kovalchyk. What’s the problem?”  
  
It’s amazing how regardless of the situation Stark can instantly make himself into Steve’s greatest frustration. “You’re joking, right?” he growls. “There’s an unauthorized civilian in the Avengers kitchen at 3 am, FRIDAY’s ignoring me, and a Code White went out 20 minutes ago and you’ve only now decided to show up!”  
  
He should still be fixated on Kovalchyk, he’s the unknown quantity here, but Steve finds himself swinging to face Stark anyways. He can’t help it.  
  
“First off,” Tony snaps, “ _you_ aren’t authorized to be in the kitchen at 3 am either, Captain Asshole. Secondly, I didn’t get a Code White because FRIDAY’s not ignoring you, I turned her off. And lastly, I own the goddamn building I can show up whenever I damn well please.”  
  
Steve’s momentarily taken aback. FRIDAY runs much of the automated functions in the Compound. She’s Tony’s constant companion. “You turned her _off_?”

Stark stares right back, bristling. “What? You gonna yell at me for having a kill switch in my AI?”  
  
Steve remembers an argument long ago about the opposite. Tony had flat out removed the ability of anyone to shut JARVIS down. Not even Pepper could have. It wasn’t the first time Stark’s inclination to trust his tech over the Team had caused a rift but it was the first time Steve realized how deep it went.  
  
“Why?” Steve answers his own question when his eyes alight on Kovalchyk still sipping his tea. “You don’t want any record of him being here. What are you using him for? A second opinion? Bucky’s doctors have to cleared by - “  
  
“ _I know_. I wrote the damn thing - “  
  
Suddenly Steve is standing too close to Stark. “I swear if you've done anything that - “  
  
“Back to this again. Fantastic.”  
  
“ - jeopardizes Bucky or his care, I’ll - ”  
  
“You’ll what?” Stark tilts his chin up defiantly. There's a burning gleam in his eyes and it could be a scene from six months ago, six years ago, when they were nothing but their worst qualities.

This time they don’t have a magic stone to blame. This time the rush of anger flooding Steve’s body is accompanied by pinpricks of something else. He’s too aware of Tony’s body: the dark cotton of his shirt, the smell of oil and old sweat, the uneven lines of his beard where he hasn’t shaved. Stark lives in his skin in a way Steve can’t in his stolen body.  
  
The tension in the room ratchets up like a heavy, drugged haze. The buzzing in Steve’s ears grows intolerable. He wants nothing more than to reach out and bridge the gap between them but whether or not the touch is welcome, it definitely means the _talking_ part will be over.  
  
Kovalchyk clears his throat and Steve suddenly remembers they have an audience.

“Gentlemen, if you’re going to settle this violently I would like to leave.”

Kovalchyk makes a move to get off the couch and a switch flips. Tony’s eyes swing away, body language instantly back to languid as if he weren’t just hovering on the verge of confrontation. Steve can’t do that but he does take a single step back. It’s hard not to feel chastised.  
  
“I’m sorry we met this way Captain but your fears with respect to your friend are unfounded,” Kovalchyk says. “I’m merely a consulting psychiatrist. Anthony just wanted my professional opinion.”

Calling Tony by his full first name is so unusual Steve can’t recall it ever happening before. “And that means I should trust you?”  
  
“Not in and of itself.” The doctor physically injects himself between Steve and Tony and that’s historically not a safe place to be. “You just have to believe I’m not here to do Sergeant Barnes harm. I was invited.” Kovalchyk gestures toward Stark.

It does little to alleviate Steve’s suspicions. Tony takes it personally.

“For fuck’s sake,” Stark's voice has the quiet flatness that covers simmering rage, “I didn’t invite a HYDRA agent into my _living room_. Let’s pretend you respect me enough to believe I’d check,” his lips draw into a thin line, “or did you think I’d do it on purpose?”  
  
“I know you wouldn’t.” Steve can’t put Bucky at risk. Not again. “But mistakes happen.”  
  
“Mistakes are _made_.”  
  
“Alright,” Steve feels his voice rise to fill up the room and the ocean of space between them. “ _You make mistakes, Tony._ ”  
  
There’s a moment of silence like the clarity after a ringing bell. "Yeah,” Tony’s voice curls around the edges, “everyone’s made that very clear.”  
  
Steve knows he’s hit a nerve. He doesn’t know how to take it back, he doesn’t know if he wants to. What he said is true even if it isn’t fair. Everyone makes mistakes, it’s the consequences that rain unevenly.  
  
“Why do I even bother trying with you?” Tony asks bitterly, mostly to himself. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going to bed. Happy’s outside to drive you to the airport, Doc. Rogers.” He turns on his heel and wanders towards the elevators.  
  
“I’m clearing this with Tanaka and the council tomorrow,” Steve calls out.  
  
“You and what evidence?” comes Tony’s reply. “ _You_ can’t be here because you’re confined to your room after dark. Doc can’t be here, he doesn’t have access. FRIDAY’s down due to a scheduled maintenance blackout. I'm safely locked away in my workshop downstairs. You want to take this to the council be my guest.”  
  
Stark’s the respectable one now; all handshakes and goodwill. Steve’s the unstable vigilante with unsavoury friends and a reputation for violence. Still, “You really think that’d stop me?”

Tony looks back and Steve stands tall. He has faced much worse odds.

"No. It wouldn’t,” Tony concludes, sighing. He runs a hand through his already messy hair. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me, Rogers.”  
  
Steve meets Tony's eyes and desperately searches for truth in their depths. He tries to find some sign that he can risk Bucky's life on Tony's word. He doesn't know if he'd recognize it if he found it.  

Tony breaks their stalemate. His lips twist and he turns away to conceal whatever emotion he doesn't want Steve to see. “FRIDAY’s back up in ten.”

Then he’s gone and Steve's not sure whether he won or lost.  
  
Steve’s manners force him to collect the doctor's cane and overcoat from the kitchen. Kovalchyk picks up his sketchbook and looks at Steve over the rim of his spectacles. It reminds Steve of schoolmasters of years past.  
  
“These are good.” Kovalchyk frowns slightly at the drawings. “None of them have faces.”  
  
“Faces are hard,” Steve rasps.    
  
“I’d imagine so. You have to decide how your creations feel and then you have to make them feel it.” Kovalchyk hands the book back. “That’s a terrible sort of power.”  
  
Steve feels exposed. He flips the cover back over his sketches, protecting them from further investigation. It isn't long before Happy flashes the red taillights of the waiting car outside and Kovalchyk disappears into the night.    
  
After the doctor leaves Steve flips through the black and white sketches of faceless men and women and thinks  _no,_ _he has no power at all_.  
  
———————  
  
Steve doesn’t get the chance to go to the council because two hours after FRIDAY comes back online and gives him the runaround, Natasha walks in and drops a thin file on the breakfast bar in front of him.  
  
“Dr. Robert Milton Kovalchyk, Canadian psychiatrist. Born 1956 in Winnipeg to parents of Polish extraction. Medical Degree from McGill University. Currently practicing out of Toronto.”

Steve reaches for the file but Natasha pulls it back just out of reach. Her next words are deliberate. “Kovalchyk’s not a threat.”  
  
Steve pretends that he was ever good enough to catch her lies. “Alright.”  
  
She leans forward and looks Steve directly in the eye. “If you won’t trust Tony, trust _me_.”  
  
“I don’t - “ he falters, trying to find the words, “I don’t not trust him,” the distinction will not pass the Widow by, “and I do trust you but if Kovalchyk’s above board there’s no reason for Stark to hide him.”  
  
Natasha manages to snort elegantly. “Tony’s always treated rules as optional, why would he start obeying them now?”  
  
“ _He doesn’t get to do that_ ,” Steve says, surprising himself with how forceful he sounds. “He doesn’t get to break us apart because I wouldn’t follow them and then turn around and - ”  
  
“Still be Tony?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. He’s envious of the ways in which Tony survived their falling out. He still gets to be _Tony Stark_ and Iron Man and an Avenger. He gets to keep his name, his team, his purpose. Steve gets a damaged shield and _Rogers_.  
  
There’s a rebuke in Natasha’s stare. “As long as you’re complaining about rules being broken: Tony’s letting you drop curfew, Tanaka lets you sit in on classified procedures, and I gave you access to the North Wing.”  
  
“I never asked any of you to do that.”  
  
“No, we did it because we're your friends.” She stares him down.  
  
Steve backs off, a strange lump in his throat. “I know. You’re doing your best and - thank you, Nat.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” she returns flatly before moving on. “Kovalchyk is not a threat. If Stark wants an outside opinion, give him that.” _You owe him_ , goes unspoken. “Don’t go digging, don’t tell the council, don’t rock the boat.”  
  
Steve holds his hands out in surrender. “You have my word.”  
  
She releases the file. “Tony also told me you’ve taken to sleeping on the couch at night like a guard dog. You have a bed Steve, you could use it every once in a while.”  
  
He wonders if Tony told her they’re still falling into it together, if she knows Steve’s already broken that promise.  
  
“I will.” He pretends to smile back. He shouldn’t be able to fool a spy of Natasha’s caliber but maybe she's tired or maybe the fake smile he’s practiced for weeks doesn’t look fake to anyone but himself anymore. Natasha says nothing as she exits.  
  
The file is slim but complete and Robert Kovalchyk has lead a slim but complete life. He was born the youngest of three sons to a nurse and a landscaper. He married a Vietnamese immigrant in ’85 and relocated to Toronto where they had three children of their own. His professional life is equally solid but there’s nothing particularly noteworthy in his career. Natasha’s included the standard SHIELD background check and Kovalchyk’s checklist comes back all green. His finances show no red flags, neither do his travel logs. His parents are dead, his children are married. He’s on medication for kidney stones.  
  
There is no mystery to Robert Kovalchyk: there are thousands of other doctors with greater distinction. That’s what makes no sense because Tony _is_ remarkable. He's a charismatic genius born to wealth and fame; he’s never known ordinary. (Not like Steve did, and that chip on his now extraordinary shoulder _grates_.) Tony likes remarkable people and Robert Kovalchyk - model citizen that he is - does not fit.

That’s the detail that Steve keeps circling back to day after day. He adheres to Natasha’s instructions and keeps Kovalchyk off the record but he picks at him like an open sore. Neither Tanaka nor Bucky have heard of him but even though FRIDAY is nominally kept out of the North Wing it’s not like Tony couldn’t get access to the Winter Soldier’s files -  
  
Everything holds; nothing blows up or gets corrupted but Steve feels like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stays up in the living room every night. He never runs into Kovalchyk again.

It all comes spilling out on Tuesday because Bucky can tell something’s wrong. “What do you think he wants?”    
  
Steve tries not to let his mind run wild. “I don’t know. Kovalchyk can't do much from Toronto - "  
  
“I meant Stark,” Bucky interrupts and Steve blinks, confused. “That’s the real question right? If he’s calling in doctors, what does he want from me?”  
  
Steve had been so wrapped up in finding Kovalchyk’s true motivations he had almost ignored Tony completely. “I don’t know, Buck.”

The non-answer floats in the silence between them. Bucky's recently started wearing his prosthetic again. He picks up the basketball and sinks a shot from the three point line. It’s an easier feat with two arms.  
  
“Right,” Bucky says and his tone reminds Steve of the war. “So are we trusting him or are we pulling a runner?”

He turns and gives Steve the same small utterly _insane_ grin he sometimes got when he said yes to Steve’s riskier plans. The truth of it shines, bright and pure; all he has to do is say the word and Bucky’s all in. He’d forgotten that loyalty like that existed.  
  
Steve wants to trust Tony but the niggling doubts in his brain won’t leave him alone. Even if he grants Stark the purest of intentions he can’t help but analyze all the ways in which the execution is lacking. Tony isn’t infallible; he can be tricked, lied to, _used_. (Steve knows this; has seen it, has done it.)

Kovalchyk may not be a threat but he is a puzzle, maybe even a solvable one. Tony is not.  
  
“What do you think?” Steve asks and watches as Bucky does a double take, like he’s not quite used to thinking of them on equal footing.  
  
He's surprised by the immediacy of his answer. “Stay. I want to stay. If that means I have to trust Stark… “ He sinks another basket effortlessly. “For now.”  
  
“For now,” Steve echoes and tries to ignore the slow curdling of dread in his gut.  
  
Bucky starts walking towards the exit where Dr. Tanaka and a technician are coming to retrieve him. “Who knows, maybe this Gregory Kovalchyk guy just really like tea.”  
  
Steve waves Bucky off but all he can think later in the slow dead of night is: _where on Earth did Bucky get **Gregory**?_  
  
————————————

Steve spends the next day in research. It was never in his job description: he went from dancing monkey to front line soldier to Avenger. The behind-the-scenes work was left to Army Intelligence or SHIELD. Still, FRIDAY is as helpful and unhelpful as a silent AI can be and none of her databases are off-limits.

It turns out Robert Kovalchyk may have lead an unremarkable life but his father, Grzegorz Kowalczyk, did not. Grzegorz was a Polish scientist who immigrated during the war and ended up a consultant for the American government. He did work for Hayes, for Oppenheimer. The more Steve reads the more sure he is that Grzegorz was a prime candidate for SHIELD; intelligent and driven with no home to return to, except half a year after the war Grzegorz’s life just _blanks_.

He up and retires to the endless prairie of rural Manitoba. That doesn’t rule out any secret work he could have done. In fact, the numerous silos and bunkers littered across the Kovalchyk homestead suggest otherwise, but to the world at large he becomes a landscaper, has his children, and changes his name.

 _Kowalczyk_ becomes _Kovalchyk_. _Grzegorz_ becomes _Gregory_.  
  
Gregory drowns on the family property in 1974. It takes the police eleven days to officially rule it an accident. There are incomplete files but it was a local force in the 70s and parts are inevitably missing. There was no autopsy but a number of objections to the dragging investigation get printed in the local paper. Enough to suggest a cover-up. Enough to suggest it wasn’t an accident.

Steve’s stomach lurches. He’s felt this way before; torn between wanting to know more and needing to know less. There’s only one reason Tony would choose a man as unremarkable as Robert Kovalchyk to review the Winter Soldier’s files. Stark’s after a second opinion in more ways than one.    
  
In a daze Steve prints off everything he needs. FRIDAY has to direct him into the basement to find a printer because such a process is considered antiquated. He wants there to be reams of information but instead everything he finds fits comfortably in a small folder. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Natasha is his best bet but both her and Tony must already know and neither will take well to Steve's investigation. Grzegorz Kowalczyk is not yet on the official list of the Winter Soldier’s victims which means Bucky might not even know. Cataloguing the Soldier’s assassinations is a process and it’s lower in priority to stabilizing his mental state.

Maybe the Winter Soldier didn’t do it and Bucky’s just remembering old names in passing. Maybe HYDRA used a different hitman. Maybe Grzegorz just forgot how to swim and Steve’s making a big deal out of nothing.  
  
Steve has lost a lot on _maybe_.  
  
He spends the rest of the evening trying to cover his agitation. He spends hours failing to add faces to the figures in his sketchbook. Every expression he draws is wrong; waffling between cartoonish and lifeless. He can’t get the precise tick of lips right to indicate a secretive smile so the woman is left with a silent scream. The eyes of another stare off the page in desperation, as if needing to escape the mutilation of Steve’s pen. The Tin Soldier’s face is blank and dead but at least that fits. It’s only humanity Steve has difficulty capturing on the page.  
  
The folder sits on the coffee table in front of him, a ticking time bomb.  
  
He tells himself it’s luck that the first person who strolls through the living quarters that night is Robert Kovalchyk.

Steve lets out a breath, head bowed. “I know why you’re here.”    
  
“Well the tea’s very good, almost worth the rough introduction.” He spots Steve’s rigid posture and amends, “FRIDAY said you were waiting for me.”  
  
Steve nods. He's planned this out, all his arguments and contingencies. He needs Kovalchyk to understand Bucky and the Soldier aren’t one and the same. He’s going to explain without violence this time. The Compound is silent, absent even the ticking of clocks. There’s just the two of them, a couple of sheets of innocent paper, and the truth.  
  
“I know the Winter Soldier killed your father.” Steve pushes it past his lips and it becomes real.  
  
The reaction is not one he was expecting. There’s a look of all-encompassing surprise on Kovalchyk’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Steve experiences a moment of perfect confusion because he didn't plan for _this_ and then it all rushes towards anger.

“Stark didn’t tell you,” his voice cracks. Maybe this is his punishment for getting it wrong the first time. He has to break the news to another son about the death of his father.  
  
“He certainly never told me my father was murdered.”  
  
“He was," Steve squeezes his eyes shut, "he might have been. There’s a good chance HYDRA had him killed and that they used the Winter Soldier - James Barnes - to do it.” He rifles through the papers. This isn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. “I don’t have everything here, but I’m - if Tony…”

“What about Anthony?” Kovalchyk’s voice is much too calm.

"It happened to Tony too. His parents were killed in ’91." Steve finds he can only stare at his hands. "He wants your opinion and I think that’s because HYDRA had your father killed too. I think they used the Winter Soldier to do it.”

Two sentences. That’s all it takes. That’s all it would have taken.

“I’m sorry.” Steve has to steel all his courage to lift his head. He remembers too vividly that look of heartbreak and devastation and he doesn’t know if he would survive seeing even an echo of it directed at him again.  
  
Instead Kovalchyk’s blue eyes are calm and steady. “You’re wrong.”  
  
Steve’s learning denial gets you nowhere. “Maybe I am, but _listen_ \- “  
  
“Captain,” Kovalchyk’s voice is soft but unwavering, “I understand what you are saying. I’m telling you, _you are incorrect_.” He turns toward the kitchen. “Come now, this story requires tea.”  
  
Steve can’t do anything but trail helplessly behind.  
  
Only once the kettle’s on does Kovalchyk start, “I loved my father and he was a lucky man. He was a calculator - a numbers man - for a rather famous scientist by the name of Boleslaw Walas. He sent my father to London for a conference in the late summer of 1939. The Nazis invaded Poland in the meantime.” Kovalchyk pauses. “Walas was not a lucky man.”  
  
“There weren’t a lot of them in Poland,” Steve says quietly.  
  
“I’d forgotten you’d know.”  
  
Teacups are filled, two this time and Steve accepts his black without complaint. Kovalchyk adds lemon. “By 1941 he was here in the US, nursing his hatred of the Germans and with Walas’s ideas rattling around his brain. He was adopted by the American government who put him to work for a brilliant man named Howard Stark.”  
  
Steve leans forward. “They were friends.”  
  
“Not at the end but yes, for awhile. They worked on the bomb together and while Stark moved onto other projects - mainly you - my father didn’t. After the war my father left America and that’s where their professional association ended.” Kovalchyk’s expression turns wistful. “I was 22 when he died. My brothers and I were all at medical school. I got a phone call from Derek Collins, the police chief. He told me my father was dead and that it wasn’t an accident.”  
  
“He was killed.”  
  
Kovalchyk’s face is infinitely sad. “After a fashion. You see Captain, my father’s war ended in May 1945 with the surrender of Nazi Germany. The bomb he poured all of his hard work and hatred into was never deployed in the European theatre. Instead Truman dropped it on Hiroshima in September. Five days later, another was dropped on Nagasaki.” His laugh is a mere exhalation. “I’m not sure my father spared a single thought for Japan during the entirety of the war and then,” he snaps his fingers, “he had helped wipe out two cities. He didn’t have enough hatred left for that.”  
  
“He moved countries, cut off all his old acquaintances, changed his name to disappear. He never picked up a set of blueprints again. He watched the Americans and the Soviets build up nuclear arsenals until each had enough to destroy the world ten times over. He even built a labyrinth of fallout shelters under our property but he could never quite escape what he'd helped create.” Kovalchyk shakes his head. “He managed to survive just long enough to see his sons grown and off to college. Then one cold day in April he walked out to the bridge over our creek and hung himself for his crimes.”  
  
Steve’s tea has gone cold.  
  
“He left a note: his own execution warrant written in Polish for his hand in the deaths of thousands and for the sickness in the minds of men. The police chief was an old family friend, they called it an accident to save us a suicide.” Kovalchyk finishes his tea with shaking hands. “My father was killed by his own hand and I’ve dedicated the entirety of my medical career to understanding why he thought it was the fair thing to do.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.  
  
Kovalchyk comes out of his grief. “Some tragedies have no one to blame.”  
  
“You’re not here for Bucky at all.” The realization aches somewhere deep in Steve's chest. “You’re here for Tony.”  
  
“I’m not at liberty to say.”  
  
But of course he is. It’s why Natasha’s fine with hiding him from the council. It’s why Tony is perfectly willing to let Steve believe he’s screwing with Bucky’s head rather than admit he’s getting help. Kovalchyk is the perfect candidate; his father was a scientific genius broken by guilt who eventually -

A horrible thought occurs to Steve.

"You don't think Tony’s going to - ” There are too many things still broken between them. "He wouldn't. He _can't_."  
  
Kovalchyk’s frail hand encircles Steve’s wrist where he’s grabbed him. “To my knowledge no one is currently in any danger beyond the routine dodging of insane megalomaniacs. I’d tell someone if I suspected that had changed. Are you alright, Captain Rogers?”  
  
Steve’s head is still spinning. “You called him Anthony. No one calls him Anthony.”  
  
Kovalchyk’s smile is nostalgic. “Howard Stark was one of the last pieces of the past my father dropped. I think despite their conflicting worldviews he admired Howard enough to want to like him. The last and only time I met the Starks, I was 17 and Anthony was one. Everyone called him Anthony then.”  
  
Steve can’t imagine ever taking that liberty. “Did he tell you about - how they died?”  
  
“You know I can’t answer that.”     
  
“I didn’t tell him.” The confession bubbles out. “After SHIELD fell and I found Bucky, I thought everything was going to be okay. Then I realized what had probably happened to the Starks and I just… ignored it. I bet on _everything being fine_ and if that was the case there was nothing to tell.” He shuffles the papers around to give his hands something to do. “It wasn’t _fine_. Tony found out everything at once. His parents, the Winter Soldier, _me_. We broke the Avengers and it only happened because the bad guy knew exactly how much of coward I was.”  
  
Steve touches the folder in front of him reverently. “I didn’t want anything like that to happen again.”  
  
“And it didn’t.”  
  
Steve swallows thickly. “I was wrong.”  
  
“You didn’t know that when you sat me down.” Kovalchyk picks up his cane and his voice is kind. “It means you’re not too old to learn from your mistakes, Captain.”

" _Steve._ " He feels lighter. "My name's Steve."

Kovalchyk tips his hat. "Goodnight, Steve."  
  
Steve stays awake on the couch for the rest of the night but for the first time since waking in the future, he feels young.    
  
—————————————

Tony must find out what happened from Kovalchyk or FRIDAY because he avoids Steve for the next month. It’s easier than it seems because the new New Avengers have their first operational cock-up in Istanbul. The mission is technically a success; the arms cache is secured and catalogued with no civilian casualties and minimal infrastructure damage. The only misstep is a momentary burst of friendly fire from Turkish troops who were told to guard the retrieved cache with their lives.

Iron Man, Vision and War Machine can take bullets just fine. The Black Widow can’t.  
  
Natasha ends up in emergency surgery before they fly her back Stateside. Helen Cho is on her way from Seoul, Rhodes is presenting to the UN, Vision is onsite in Turkey, and Stark is doing damage control on all PR fronts. There’s no one left to stay by her side except Steve and mercifully after a few sharp words no one objects. He doesn't leave her side for close to 68 hours and the beard he’s starting to grow makes him look like a stranger.

He holds her pale hand and tries not to think of how inadequate it is. He’s not a doctor. The only way he could have helped was to _be there_ and he wasn’t. Air superiority and range weapons are the new Avengers advantages but it means Natasha is stranded on the ground with whatever local military and no one to watch her back.

The longer he looks at her ( _helpless_ , and the Black Widow was never helpless) the angrier he gets. They aren’t supposed to get shot by their own allies because they’re supposed to go in alone. He’s angry at Clint for not magically appearing when Nat needed him, he’s angry at Tony for not protecting her better. He’s angry with Bruce for being missing in action. He’s even angry at Natasha for staying; for trying to save them all from themselves instead of running away and saving herself. (He’s angry at himself most of all.)  
  
She wakes on a Wednesday and Steve’s the only one around to greet her. Eventually Rhodes stops by, leaning heavily on his braces and reiterating the importance of physical therapy. He steps up as interim Team Leader but he still leaves for his flat in the city afterwards. Vision doesn’t quite know what to do. He stands in the corner of the hospital room; aware that proximity brings comfort but unsure as to the exact mechanism.

Steve sees Stark visit exactly once. He’s leaning against the foot of her bed, nervously tapping on the post. In his outstretched hand is a holographic model of a new Black Widow tacksuit. Steve ducks around the corner before he’s noticed and only reappears once Tony is gone.  
   
“You’re avoiding him,” Natasha observes.  
  
“I’m giving him space.” Steve slumps into the chair, he doesn't have the energy to lie. "I didn't trust him and now I know something he doesn’t want me to.”  
  
“Kovalchyk.”  
  
“Kovalchyk.”  
  
Her mouth draws into a thin line. “You promised you wouldn’t go digging.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You promised _me_.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
She doesn’t let him look away. “Are you still sleeping with him?”  
  
Steve hesitates and Natasha grimaces.  
  
“You always do this Steve. You make promises and then you break them as if having good intentions saves you.”  
  
The shame Steve feels is unpleasant and thick. “Kovalchyk's helping.”  
  
“Tony didn’t want anyone to know. He doesn’t know _I know_.” She looks every inch as exhausted as three bullets to the abdomen will make you. “Tony very rarely seeks out help but miracles happen and the only thing I had to do was prevent you from sticking your nose where it didn’t belong. And I failed.” She tucks her tongue behind her teeth. "I thought even if you didn’t trust Tony, you’d trust me.”

Steve stares out the window to avoid her disappointment. “It’s better that we know.”  
  
“You’re not listening, _we_ can’t help Tony. He doesn’t trust me and he certainly doesn’t trust you.”    
  
It stings, to be part of the problem and not the solution. “I'm not going to hurt him."  
  
“Promise?” Natasha asks dryly with an icy glare.  
  
Steve draws a deep breath. “So how do I make it better?”  
  
She says nothing and plays with the hospital band around her wrist for a long time. “If I knew that…”  
  
Steve waits for the woman with all the answers to finish but she never does.  
  
————————————  
  
The dreams start up again.  
  
They aren’t nightmares per se. It would be easier if they were. He never dreams of the ice or the war. He dreams of running; shedding his serum-induced body with every step and instead of weak legs slowing him down he just feels lighter and lighter. He dreams of dropping his shield, of pulling off his gloves, his cowl, anything to get rid of the weight forcing him to his knees. He dreams of the Winter Soldier pulling him to his feet before taking off and Steve gives chase until the Soldier is Bucky again and Captain America is just Steve.

Sometimes Sam’s there panting to keep up. Sometimes Steve catches the red flash of Natasha’s hair disappearing around a corner. Sometimes he just _knows_ as he runs through the alleys of his mind that the Avengers have his back, or the Howling Commandos do, or SHIELD. He knows too, with the certainty of dream logic, that people are hunting him. It should be scary but it isn’t.  
  
This is how the dream ends: running through a labyrinth with hunters hot on his heels but Steve’s happy and Bucky smiles and it doesn’t matter if they’re right or wrong because they’re free.  
  
This is how it starts: the Soldier pulls the bloodied shield from Steve’s hands and it drops to the floor with a sound that echoes for miles. The corpse at his feet is faceless; as if the artist couldn’t fathom how it felt to die under crashing metal. _Dead, dead, dead._ (It’ll all be worth it later.) Steve leaves his shield, his uniform, his skin, in a pile at the dead man’s side and doesn’t look back because if he does he’ll be lost. They have to run, they have to run _right now_. Then Bucky leads him out and the chase begins anew.  
  
By the end of the dream, Steve is happy.  
  
It’s only when he wakes that it becomes a nightmare.  
  
————————————

Steve wakes on the floor of the gym to a dull thrum at 3 am. It’s a blessing. The dream slips away, leaving nothing but a slick, acrid aftertaste at the back of his throat. It takes him several moments to realize the hum is not in his imagination. He’s not hearing it, he’s feeling it; minute vibrations singing through the structure of the building itself. It’s a living pulse, keeping tempo like a beating heart.  
  
Some long-buried instinct steers him down toward the basement. He's had no reason to visit Tony’s workshop since he came back. It isn’t as fancy as the one Stark had at the Tower but when Steve reaches out to place his palm on the locked steel doors he can feel the heavy bass line of music being played at astronomical volume.

It’s comforting in its own way. It reminds Steve that he is not alone. After the thin walls of poverty, the army barracks, SHIELD - Steve has never had the space or time to deal with silence. Only over the past few months is he finally learning why the lonely compulsively fill their space with sound. He leans his forehead against the door and counts beats. _1… 2… 3… 4… 1…_  
  
The doors slide open, melody and drums crashing out. Steve only hesitates a second before entering. The volume is loud - painfully so - but the man in charge of it doesn’t seem to care. Tony’s bent over a workbench in the remnants of his tuxedo, sleeves rolled up and stained with oil. He has a pair of his close-work glasses on and Steve can see the bright neon yellow of earplugs because Tony always liked to feel his music as much as listen to it. His hands are busy repairing the broken BARF glasses. Steve wonders who asked Tony to fix them.  
  
The music’s too loud to get a word in edgewise so Steve contents himself with watching Tony work, marveling at the meticulousness and precision that seems so absent in the rest of Stark's life. The fourth time Tony adjusts his position Steve reaches out and carefully runs a hand down his bent back, letting warmth seep into aching muscles. Tony shivers and his head falls forward, exposing the knotted bumps of his spine. Steve takes it as an invitation, his hand stroking soothingly with steady pressure. Stark’s warm, _alive_ , under Steve’s palm and the aftertaste of the dream fades. They stay like that for longer than either of them would be prepared to admit, with no one else awake the moment seems to exist out of time.

Then Tony slips his glasses off and makes a gesture that gets FRIDAY to cut the music. “You never come down here,” he says in a gravelly voice.    
  
“I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
Tony nods to himself and rolls his shoulder back. “Not here.”  
  
He leads Steve out of the workshop, the lights automatically dimming behind them. He’s limping, muscles clearly stiff, as they go up a flight of stairs Steve didn’t know existed to one of the guest living quarters. Tony barely waits until they’re inside before he’s pressing himself into Steve, licking into his mouth. It’s not the worst cure for insomnia and even after a three week absence they fit as well as they ever did. At least Tony isn’t avoiding him now. Maybe he finally believes in Steve's goodwill or maybe he’s just desperate enough for a drink, or a friend, or sleep that it doesn’t matter that Steve is all he has left.

"This is new." Tony drags his fingers through Steve's short beard.

"I'm thinking of keeping it."

"You have the worst ideas." Tony attacks Steve's mouth before he can retort. It's a dirty trick but Steve swiftly doesn’t care once Tony’s hands start wandering downward.

It's quick escalation, even for them, and Steve gentles Tony with a hand on either side of his face until he loses that edge of manic desperation. This close Steve can smell Stark's cologne, spicy and earthy, strange on his skin. Tony always wore clean, breezy scents because Pepper preferred them and Tony preferred Pepper. The change isn't good or bad just disquieting. Tony pulls Steve’s T-shirt off him but when Steve moves to reciprocate Tony sidesteps out of the way. That's not unusual either, there are days when one or the other can't deal with added vulnerability. Steve draws back until he can see what the dim lights of the workshop hid: the dark circles under Tony’s eyes, the gelled hair, the red mark -  
  
It’s a love bite. Faded in the interim hours but still visible, peeking just above his collar. Steve reaches out and swipes his thumb over it. Tony freezes. It’s too red on his skin, even redder next to Steve’s pale fingers. Without his brain’s permission he reaches under the vee of Tony’s unbuttoned dress shirt to flip the collar down, exposing the rest of the hickey and another laid high on Stark’s pectoral. Broken blood vessels in a perfect circle. This is what Tony was aiming to hide.  
  
Stark lets him look his fill. “You don’t know him.”  
  
_Him_. No name, just _him_. Steve’s affront deepens even as he becomes aware of how ridiculous it is. Being possessive of Tony Stark is a losing proposition on all fronts; he belongs to no one but himself. He’s one of the most famous men in the world, why shouldn’t he sleep with whomever he wants? Why should he confine himself to this? To _them_?

Steve curls his hand lightly around the left side of Tony’s neck to hide the red from view. The other finishes unbuttoning the dress shirt and underneath he finds another bite high on Tony’s abdomen and light bruising around his left nipple. That's all. Steve’s left him in worse shape accidentally and he fights the urge to do so again on purpose. To lay his own marks overtop existing ones until pink deepens to purple, to black, until Tony is marked so far under the skin he _remembers_ even once the bruises fade. If Steve can’t ever forget how Tony looks/sounds/feels, then Tony doesn’t get to forget the reverse, not even for a night -

It's frightening, the magnitude of his feeling. He breathes through it and touches Stark like he’s glass. For once Tony seems grateful for the careful attention but he still winces as he steps out of his dress pants.  
  
“Are you hurt?” Steve asks more sharply than he intends to.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”    
  
“ _Don’t lie._ You don’t have to tell me specifics but - ” he bites himself off before _please_ , “don’t lie.”  
  
Tony’s smirk is amused. “In the immortal words of Jack Nicholson, _you can’t handle the truth_.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“Fine. I’m not injured Rogers, I’m _sore_.”  
  
Tony’s eyes have a dark glint and when Steve finally figures out what he means he can feel a blush rush to his cheeks. There are _things_ two men can do with each other that the two of them have never done. The combination of modern porn and ‘40s fear has rendered the act into something over-the-top and obscene in Steve’s imagination. He prefers hands and walls and silence, Tony likes mouths and dirty talk and off-label uses of furniture, but the closest they’ve come to something more involved is Stark’s fingers wandering to the skin behind Steve’s sac. He’d just assumed that Tony didn’t do more, or didn’t like it.

Apparently he’s wrong. Apparently random men at galas meet Tony’s ineffable standards and Steve does not, even if he'd have turned any offer down flat. The muted disgust must show on his face.

“Here comes the internalized homophobia, right on cue,” Tony mutters under his breath.

Steve realizes he pulled his hands away the moment Tony told him. “I’m not - “  
  
“Of course not,” Tony interjects smoothly with false reassurance. “You don’t judge others but you’re totally straight. Because blow jobs and handies miraculously don’t count somehow and what happened in the forties stays in the forties," he throws Steve a look, "or is periodically frozen and revived for assassination purposes.”  
  
Steve’s not _straight as an arrow_ but he’s not... He’s never though about it. It doesn’t matter. He’s not so invested in labels that he’ll take whatever bait is dangled in front of him.

“You’re right.” Tony does a double-take and Steve keeps his voice steady. “They counted. You count.”

There’s a moment of silence and then the aggression bleeds out of Stark until he just looks exhausted. They don’t need this: the argument or anything more but Tony is clearly gunning for both. He might get his wish: Steve can't bring himself to look at Stark for long, at his body littered with reminders that Tony let himself be touch and marked and _used_ by a stranger. Steve's not so far gone that he'll begrudge Tony his freedom but he resents it just the same.  
  
“Shower,” Steve orders, pointing to the ensuite bathroom.  
  
Tony must see the wisdom of that suggestion because doesn’t fight the command. He disappears into the bathroom, closing the door after a brief moment of confusion when Steve doesn’t follow.

Instead Steve sits on the edge of the bed, hunched. Tony takes a long time. Long enough that Steve would be worried if enhanced hearing couldn’t pick up a body moving under the shower head. Even once the water is shut off, it’s another decent stretch of time before the door opens and humidity floods the room.  
  
Tony looks better, naked and clean. The shower must have been burning hot because his skin’s still red in places and looks warm to the touch. Without a word he stalks over to the bed and slips to the floor between Steve’s knees. Steve sucks in a breath, his body responding in the way he’s conditioned it to and his sleep pants hide nothing. Too suddenly there’s hand on either of his knees, slowly sliding up his thighs towards his waistband, telegraphing what’s coming next -  
  
Steve’s hand shoots out to enmesh itself in damp hair before Tony can do anything more. Forward moment halted, Tony’s arms relax against Steve’s outer legs to rub soothing circles. He smells clean; no lingering trace of a stranger’s cologne and his hair looks black where it’s sticking up between Steve’s fingers. He gently tugs Tony’s head back to expose the red bite still not quite faded on his throat. Steve has no right to be jealous. They’re nothing to each other - not even friends. It’s just harder to believe that sometimes.

When he stares for too long Tony shakes his head and Steve knows his time is up.

Tony looks up at him from below dark lashes, a smirk on his face. His fingers tease the waistband at Steve’s hips. “Tell me what you want, Dealer's choice.”  
  
The low rumble of Tony’s voice bypasses Steve’s brain and goes straight to his groin. It’s confident and assured and Steve wants to believe it’s real but how would he know? Did the man at the gala get a different smile? Was Tony more or less eager to get on his knees for him? (Was he better than Steve? Did he treat Tony like a lover instead of - )  
  
Steve’s hand moves to cradle Tony’s face and the smirk falters. It’s then that Steve realizes why Tony looks so much better after a simple shower. He swipes his thumb under Stark’s right eye and it comes away smudged with cover-up. The hollow blue of the tired under-eye circle shines through the thin layer left behind. Which means Tony showered and then reapplied it.

Steve knows there are parts of himself that Tony fakes for the world but Steve already knows all the soft, vulnerable bits that lie under Iron Man’s armour. Tony pasting on some concealer and a smile isn’t going going to make Steve forget. He doesn’t want another Stark performance: he wants something of Tony that's real, and Stark will give him a house, a shield, his body, and an army of lawyers but he will not trust Steve with that.  
  
In typical Stark fashion, Tony ignores the fact he’s been blatantly caught out. “You gonna stare into my eyes forever?” He nips at Steve’s thumb impatiently before his voice turns husky, “Or are we doing something else?”  
  
Steve doesn’t know how to make this better but he knows how to avoid making it worse. “I know what I want." He scratches his fingers across Tony’s scalp and relishes the pleased response. "Bed,” he orders.   
  
Tony’s eyes dart warily to the huge cotton expanse and back. “You don’t like beds,” he says flatly. “Too decadent as I recall. I bet I can convince you to stay right - ”

Steve grabs Tony's wrists. “Quit stalling. Do you think you'll fare better on the floor?”  
  
For all Tony’s forwardness he seems to be backtracking now. “I’m not saying _no_ , I’m saying you're pretty big and - “  
  
Steve has lost whatever plot thread Tony's babbling about but it doesn't matter. He stands abruptly, forcing Tony to scramble back. With one hand he throws the covers open and in a single movement he picks Tony up at the waist and drops him onto the mattress.  
  
“Bed it is,” Tony says breathlessly as he tries to disentangle his limbs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  
  
“You offered _whatever I wanted_ ,” Steve reminds him mildly as he tries to clear the remaining bedsheets out of the way.  
  
Tony’s face becomes utterly expressionless. “This is a bad position for this,” he mumbles, twisting. “Lube’s in the top drawer.”  
  
“Don’t need it.”  
  
“What?” Tony’s near panicking now as he squirms under where Steve is leaning over his back, partially pinning him. “No. Non-negotiable, Steve - “  
  
The use of his first name hardly registers because Steve finally manages to grab hold of the freed bedsheets, shove Tony approximately lengthwise and throw them back over him. Then he's pulling on his own shirt and crossing the room to the door. He pauses at the threshold and looks back at Tony sitting bolt upright under the covers with a look of such confusion it’d be comical if Steve didn’t suspect dark undercurrents ran underneath.  
  
“FRIDAY, lights out.”  
  
The room dims immediately. “ _Yes, sir_.”

It’s the first time she’s responded to a command given by Steve since he moved back in and he imagines he hears approval.

“Go to sleep Tony,” he says gently.

Then he shuts the door with a quiet click.  
  
Steve makes it all the way back to the kitchen before asking.

“FRIDAY, who was it?”  
  
There’s a split second of silence before blue screens light up the nearest platform. Pictures and articles about the nineteenth annual Founder’s Gala held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, including several photos of Tony arriving solo.  
  
“ _No public logs exist between 7:30 pm and 1:00 am. You are not authorized to view private itineraries._ ”  
  
Steve knows he should stop here but he doesn’t. “From public information only - guest list, known associates - just give me your best guess.”  
  
Stark’s AIs are excellent predictors of behavior when the subject at hand is Tony. The screen explodes in blue again and Steve tries and fails not to look. Most of the multiple windows close before being repopulated, all with articles featuring the same man. It doesn’t take FRIDAY long at all.  
  
“ _His name is -_ “  
  
“I don’t need to know.”  
  
The files she’s opened censor themselves. There are still pictures though. The man is Tony’s age: dark blond, smaller than Steve but most men are these days. In the most prominent photo he’s wearing a wedding ring and standing next to his blonde wife and two blond children. The president of some media conglomerate based out of the Midwest.

Him and Tony have a history apparently. They’re in the same boarding school photos, they have the same arresting officer for _public intoxication_ , and then suddenly nothing. The excerpts from their respective biographies reference a childhood friendship that ended in flames in their early twenties and put their respective companies on a collision course. The blond has given several interviews obliquely slandering Tony since then but they’ve had no connection, business or otherwise until last night.  
  
Steve doesn’t know if he’d have preferred someone random or someone better. Either would be an improvement over knowing Tony chose his married, ex-childhood friend to fool around with at the Founder’s Gala. It feels like regression, like everything Tony learned after Afghanistan, after Pepper, is coming undone and leaving the alcoholic homewrecker behind.

Steve looks closer at the media conglomerate itself. It owns several 24/7 news channels nationally and dozens of local outfits across the Midwest and California, all with an anti-Avenger bent that manages to condemn him and Tony both. He can think of a dozen reasons why the Avengers need the American media onside and absolutely zero for why Tony would sleep with a man who hates him.  
  
Steve’s eyes flit back to the picture of the blond. “What did Tony want from him?”  
  
“ _I do not understand."_  
  
“What would Tony ask for? What favours does he need?”  
  
FRIDAY doesn’t answer. The screens flicker and die, and only then does Steve realize what he’s implied. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know he wouldn’t trade - ”  
  
It’s too late. She’s gone silent again. A connection reestablished and relost in a night.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says to an empty room.  
  
FRIDAY’s petty. The coffee machine doesn’t even turn on so Steve has to settle for cold, leftover sludge and a night on the couch. He’s still awake at nine when Tony comes into the kitchen. The coffee machine miraculously works for him and when he leaves for wherever he goes Steve finds half a pot left.

Tony always makes his coffee too bitter by half and piping hot. It warms Steve from the inside out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over halfway done! Final word count will be ~ 55,000. 
> 
> I am absolutely dedicated to the idea that Steve has never taken more than three minutes cumulative thinking about his sexuality. He was a sickly kid raised in the forties and was in his early twenties when he joined the army. I just don't think he spends too much time thinking about esoteric subjects. 
> 
> I also apologize to all Polish people for any butchering of names/history/science.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads and I appreciate the encouragement!


	4. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which letters remain undelivered.  
>  _The paints leech through the fibres of the paper, carrying colour deeper and deeper; ruining all the sheets below. The paper is too thin, the colours applied too heavily but it still feels like Stark should share the blame for forcing his way onto the page. Tony staining everything._

The detente fools Steve into believing things are getting better. On the surface they are: they find fewer reasons to argue, fewer reasons to take it further. Most of that is attributable to Natasha still being sidelined. Tony runs around the world, Steve runs around the Compound and the fact that their personal Doomsday Clock has stopped ticking down is a nice side-effect entirely divorced from their individual choices.  
  
It’s not sustainable though. It’s just the peace before the war.  
  
Steve’s creeping through the North Wing, sleep long since forgotten. He can’t find Bucky in his quarters so he heads for the next logical place: the small gym. As he approaches he can hear the murmur of two distinct voices and instantly his focus snaps to, everything in him going on high alert. At night the floor is supposed to be empty save Bucky. Steve doesn’t even wait to hear what the voices are saying, just pushes open the double doors -    
  
A yawning chasm opens up beneath him. It’s a scene from his nightmares.  
  
They’re facing off on the sparring mats: Bucky in hospital green and Tony in all black.  
  
_No, no, no, no -_  
  
In the split second Steve hesitates at the door, Bucky takes a swing at Tony. The prosthetic arm lashes out and it’s a good thing it isn’t HYDRA’s model because Stark’s turned to face _Steve_ and barely manages to avoid the incoming fist.  
  
Bucky hasn’t been violent since his return which means the man on the mats is no longer Bucky.  
  
The spike of adrenaline in Steve’s system has him across the room and inserted between them before anyone can blink. There’s a panicked look on Tony’s face and he holds his hands at his sides, palms forward, but with no repulsors to fire. The Soldier’s expression is wary as he falls into a defensive stance but his gaze flits over Steve’s shoulder to his prey. Without looking Steve grabs a fistful of Stark’s shirt at his chest and shoves him away, hard; the Winter Soldier is the pressing threat -  
  
The Soldier dodges his first takedown easily and blood pounds in Steve’s ears. He hasn’t sparred in months. He’s not conditioned the way the Soldier is, he has to practice and for lack of partners and drive he _hasn’t_. He regrets it now. Every reflex feels like he’s moving through chest deep water and the Soldier is faster, stronger. Steve can’t seem to drop into that calm space in the back of his mind that lets him focus solely on the flow of the fight. He’s stuck on the surface with the panicked tumbling of his thoughts, barely keeping up with the Soldier’s counter assaults. Tony’s down, vulnerable behind him, and Steve tries to keep himself between the man and the assassin because without the suit Stark is no match for -  
  
The Soldier takes advantage of Steve’s wandering mind to hook his ankle and send him sprawling. From the ground Steve can see the Soldier advancing on Tony with intent and manages to reach out and drag him down.  
  
Someone’s yelling. Someone’s been yelling this whole time.    
  
“Hey! Stevie! Steve!”  
  
His heart’s racing too fast and someone is breathing too hard. He flips them, solidly anchoring the other man to the floor. He pins the Soldier’s arms and the other man doesn’t fight it, his limbs are lax in purported surrender but Steve can’t afford to believe it. _Restrain, restrain, restrain._ No one can get hurt here. Not Bucky, not Tony. It can’t happen again and Steve can’t let it.  
  
There’s a deafening boom and crash as part of the concrete ceiling caves in and Steve can hear the whir of machinery. His internal threat calculator flips violently.  
  
_The Iron Man armor._ _No_ \-    
  
The Soldier capitalizes on the distraction. He bucks Steve off and flips them in one smooth move. His weight keeps Steve down but leaves the assassin’s back exposed to Stark and that’s not a good thing either because even if the Winter Soldier has taken over Steve can’t let Iron Man take that shot.  
  
He can’t let Tony kill Bucky. He can’t let Tony kill Bucky to save _Steve_.  
  
He can’t lose either of them but he’s going to, isn’t he? He isn’t good enough to keep them both. He always ends up choosing and it’s not fair because they both know it’s not really a choice at all. But Bucky will still be incredulously grateful and Tony will hate him anew, and Steve tells himself he can live with it as long as no one dies.  
  
A voice punches through the turbulent fog of Steve’s mind.  
  
“ _Stand down, Steve!”_ The Winter Soldier sounds like Bucky and it’s awful.  
  
“Iron Man,” Steve chokes out in warning. Tony’s armed and Bucky’s literally a sitting target -  
  
The Soldier’s head swivels and Steve shoves him out of the line of fire. Iron Man doesn't shoot, he advances, but he ignores the Soldier completely and grabs Steve instead. Cold metal encloses his right forearm and his instinctive left hook to the side of Iron Man’s helmet does nothing but bloody his knuckles.  
  
“ _Mister Rogers._ ”  
  
The voice emanating from the helmet isn’t Tony’s. Tony never calls him that, Tony mocks him with _Captain_ all the time. The voice is cold and calculating and Steve doesn’t trust it.  
  
The Soldier catches his left fist before Steve can take a second swing and now he is well and truly immobilized: stuck between the assassin and some entity in charge of the Iron Man suit. He's failed Tony and Bucky both. There’s nothing he can do except wait for the high-pitched whine of a repulsor charging at point blank range -  
  
“Fuck you, Steve.”  
  
_That's_ Tony’s voice except it sounds unsteady and thin and like the name was ripped from him.  
  
Steve looks back, fight momentarily forgotten. He spots Tony slumped in the opposite corner of the mat, arms crossed protectively over his chest where Steve had shoved him. His brown eyes are wide and wild.  
  
Steve’s heart leaps in his throat. “Tony?”  
  
Stark squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t - Stop. Just… stop.”  
  
He says it like Steve’s the problem. He’s not worried at the appearance of the Winter Soldier or whatever is controlling his suit. He’s scared of _Steve_ which means -  
  
“Hey. Easy. It’s just me,” Bucky soothes as the last remnants of the Soldier bleed out of his voice.  
  
Steve’s not sure he wasn’t imagining it in the first place. “Bucky?” he rasps.  
  
Bucky gives a defeated half-smile. “Yep. Just me, Stevie. Always me.”    
  
Steve’s gaze swings to the Iron Man armor. “FRIDAY.”  
  
She lets go of his arm and backs away to plant herself between them and Tony. Steve doesn’t move. His limbs feel like lead and his head is swimming.  
  
“Tony?” Bucky asks over his shoulder. His grip doesn’t slacken. “You okay?”  
  
Tony’s lying on his back, focused entirely on the hole in the ceiling where FRIDAY broke through. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
It falls far short of flippant.  
  
Steve was the threat. He unbalanced everything; assumed the worst and started a fight, deaf to all pleas to stop. He remembers Tony's face filled with fright and knows it wasn't because of the Soldier, it was because Steve charged. He remembers Tony's hands raised in surrender before Steve tossed him aside like a ragdoll. He pushed Tony by the _chest_ and Steve had been so, so careful where he'd laid his hands ever since he'd realized how much Stark couldn't take it.

It's like he's learned nothing.

“You back with me?” Bucky asks him quietly.  
  
Bucky would never hold Steve snapping against him but it still hurts to reopen his eyes and nod. He expects to be let up. Bucky doesn’t let him.  
  
“Tony?”

“Still here,” Stark says with barely a hint of a tremor. “Feeling a bit like a Peeping Tom to be honest.”  
  
Bucky shifts abruptly, body lifting, and Steve takes the proffered hand.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says in a small voice. “I know how it must have looked to you. Like I’d lost - ”  
  
“No. It was all me. I just saw you and,” he swallows, “I assumed when I shouldn't have. You deserve better than that. You’ve made so much progress. I should have believed in it.”  
  
The bands around his lungs contract, waiting, but Bucky just gives him a fragile smile and bumps Steve’s shoulder with his. “You’re just upset I won. You’re getting rusty, punk.”  
  
The forgiveness feels easy and natural, washing away the guilt in Steve’s stomach before it has a chance to turn cancerous. He’d forgotten what if felt like, how easy it was to breathe.  
  
The other edge of the mat is a flurry of activity.  
  
“FRIDAY, update,” Tony orders. He’s not climbing into the armor but he’s pulling on as many clothes as possible to compensate. The Iron Man suit shadows him.  
  
“ _Alarms silenced. Roof and North Medical Wing secure. No unauthorized access detected._ ”  
  
“Apart from you and Rogers crashing the party,” Tony mumbles. He spins to face them, walls back up, and bristles as he eyes Steve. “Fucking _Natasha_.”  
  
Of course he’s already figured out how Steve has access to the North Wing. “It’s not her fault.”  
  
“You should have that printed on a T-shirt, it’d save us having to speak at all.”  
  
“ _Commander Lewis wants an update on the security breach in the roof._ ”  
  
“Well, we better invent something good.” He spares a glance at Steve but only addresses Bucky. “You have half an hour to be back where you’re supposed to be, and don’t think I’ve forgotten you knew Rogers could waltz in here at any moment.”  
  
“I told him not to come,” Bucky says in own defense. Steve abruptly remembers a request for a night alone. Or rather, apparently, for a night with Tony.  
  
The words don’t seem to register. Stark stares at them, standing shoulder to shoulder, and shakes his head.  
  
“ _Your heartrate is still outside specified parameters, Boss._ ”  
  
“Hush, Fri. Let’s not give away all my secrets.”  
  
Steve worries, unsure how to ask if Tony needs help.

Bucky manages it first. “Are you alright? That didn’t look fun.”  
  
Tony pauses as if weighing what truths to divulge in front of Steve. “It’s not. I make a point to avoid - ” his hand makes a gesture.  
  
“Triggers.”  
  
“Look at you and your big therapy words.”  
  
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What did you think your money was buying?”  
  
“My own personal cyborg bodyguard, apparently.”  
  
“When you need one.” Bucky’s expression is genuine and Tony nods in acknowledgement.

Steve’s never felt like more of an outsider.    
  
“Do you want - “ Bucky points toward something on the opposite bench.  
  
Tony runs a hand through his hair now coated with concrete dust. “Not tonight.”  
  
Bucky deflates but hope threads through his voice. “You’ll be back next week?”  
  
“Same bat time, same bat channel,” Tony murmurs. “You need to get out of here too, Rogers.”  
  
Without waiting for an answer he steps into the Iron Man suit and takes off through the hole in the ceiling leaving the two soldiers alone.  
  
Bucky makes his way to the bench along the east wall and Steve follows, grateful for the silence as he gathers his thoughts.  
  
“Want to tell me what that was about?” Bucky asks, handing Steve a water bottle.  
  
“I’m sure that’s my line.”  
  
“You… You don’t fight like that.” When Steve looks at him he elaborates. “Like I used to. Mindless. You didn’t even hear me calling your name. You heard Tony.”

There's a reason Steve is hyper-sensitive to his name when Tony says it and he's thankful for it now, but the rest of his auditory recall logs the rushing white noise of combat and nothing else. He tries to shrug, feeling every ounce of the weight on his shoulders resist. “It was a lot to take in at once.” He tries to make it sound normal, like a mistake anyone was bound to make.  
  
Bucky isn’t fooled. “Siberia.”  
  
Steve feels a chill sink into his bones. “Maybe. Probably,” he amends. “I just walked in and you and Stark…” He stares at the empty mats. “I couldn’t let it happen again so I couldn’t let myself get distracted.”  
  
Bucky mercifully lets it go. They knew men in the war who were dragged by certain sounds and smells back into the hells of their own minds. He knows to some extent or another, that those men weren’t the exception but soldiers got called _weak_ for carrying the war home. There’s a new label for it now; sterile and proper. Sam would know.  
  
Steve thinks that maybe the serum fixed something in him that shouldn’t have been fixed. He has nightmares about the cold, but never about the war itself. The echoing artillery shells, the gunfire, the stench of bodies are just the backdrop to his memories. They don’t _live_ in his head the way Bucky falling does - and _God_ , he’s so glad that they don’t - but he thinks a good man would be haunted by them.  
  
They lapse back into silence but Steve fidgets, questions he has no right to ask clambering for exposure.  
  
“Ask, punk. I know you want to,” Bucky says wearily.  
  
“You call him Tony.”  
  
“You don’t. You only call him Stark.”  
  
Steve calls him by his first name often enough. Just never around Bucky. He’d hidden that familiarity away with all the other liberties he’s taken.    
  
“I need to.” Bucky licks his lips. “He looks a lot like Howard. The one we saw at the Expo, not the older one. Calling him Tony helps separate them in my head.”  
  
_Tony_ is alive. _Howard_ is dead. Bucky isn’t familiar enough with either of them to know more, so the obvious binary will do.  
  
“What does he call you?”  
  
“Barnes. Nicknames. I don’t really understand most of them.”  
  
Steve remembers when every other reference out of Tony’s mouth flew over his head. “It means he likes you.”  
  
“Some nights he can barely look at me. But he still comes.”  
  
Steve knows what that feels like too, when it seems like Tony has to steel himself just to stand in the same room. “So I take it this isn’t his first visit.”  
  
Bucky averts his face. “No. He’s been coming around to look at the arm.”  
  
“The arm,” Steve repeats tonelessly. He remembers cornering Tony so many months ago, demanding he stretch himself further.  
  
Bucky just shrugs helplessly.  
  
Steve thinks of all the nights Bucky asked him not to come, of all the times FRIDAY wouldn’t tell him where Tony was. He thinks of the day Bucky started wearing the arm again and the confusion on Dr. Tanaka’s face when Bucky couldn’t articulate what had changed.  
  
Steve’s pretty sure he knows now. “You never said anything.”  
  
“I was afraid…” Bucky winces. “I was afraid if he found out you knew he wouldn’t come back.”  
  
“…And you wanted him to come back.”  
  
Bucky runs a frustrated hand across the joint of his prosthetic. “Yeah.” He lets out a little frustrated huff. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”  
  
“You’re allowed secrets, Buck.” Steve’s voice is very small.  
  
“I just - They’re out there. All of them. The people I hurt.” Bucky pulls himself inward. “There’s no coming back from that but I thought: _if just one of them could forgive me it’d be enough_. And if Tony could, then anyone could right?”  
  
Steve feels sick. He knows better than to rely on Tony’s forgiveness. “That’s not the way it works.”  
  
“I know. Tanaka said as much. It’s a bad idea to dump that responsibility on someone else.” Bucky shakes his head. “I should be happy enough with what he’s given me but I want - “ he comes up short with a thousand-yard stare. “I just want to know that he’s okay. That I didn’t ruin his life the first time ‘round. Or when I came back.”  
  
“You didn’t. Tony’s stronger than that.”  
  
Bucky stares out at the corner with dead eyes. “He told me he forgives me.”  
  
Steve draws a sharp breath because that’s -    
  
Bucky snorts. “I don’t know which one of us he’s trying to convince. He lies a lot, I try not to mind but it’s hard to hear that.”  
  
“Maybe he’s telling the truth.” Steve can’t quite look Bucky in the eye for the envy he’d spot there. “And even if he isn’t - none of it was your fault.”  
  
Bucky’s heard it all before. He turns the tables. “Has he forgiven you yet?”  
  
The answer slips out. “No.”  
  
“Then why do you think he’d start with me?”  
  
“Because it wasn’t your fault and Tony will eventually see that. You didn’t owe him anything, you weren’t friends.”  
  
Bucky’s eyebrow shoots up like he pointing out the obvious. “Yeah Steve, most people find it easier to forgive their friends.”     
  
Steve feels numb. “Tony isn’t like that,” he looks at the back of his left hand, knuckles already scabbed over, “but I have to hope he will, someday.”  
  
“So do I.” Bucky gives Steve a grim smile. “And if he stops coming, I’ll never know.”  
  
It’s not good set-up for either of them. For Bucky to have to stare at an echo of a man he killed. For Tony to feed and house and help the man who strangled his mother. Except they banter, and Tony helps, and Bucky smiles. A secret pact in no man’s land. Steve’s own relationship with Tony might be worse.  
  
He clears his throat. “What do you talk about?”  
  
“Nothing heavy. Things. Baseball teams. Jello.” Bucky seems to figure out what Steve’s really asking. “Not _them_. Not you.”      
  
Which means Bucky still doesn’t know he's sleeping with Stark. Tony hasn’t told him. The secret safe and unsafe at once.  
  
Steve picks up the two heavy, unsealed envelopes resting on the bench. “These for Tony?”  
  
“He doesn’t want them.”  
  
“What are they?”  
  
Bucky fidgets like he wants to tear them from Steve’s hands. “You know he tells them all, right? Or I guess his lawyers do. Sends ‘em round to the next of kin of everyone on the list. Like war telegrams.”  
  
Steve can hear the capital ‘L’ implicit in _list_ and knows Bucky means the list of the Winter Soldier’s assassinations. It makes sense that Stark would tell them. Tony doesn’t like to repeat mistakes either.  
  
“I didn't know. He didn't tell me.” The closer he gets to Tony the more he seems to miss.  
  
“Well, he does. They get any non-sensitive HYDRA files the Avengers find, any details I - _the Soldier_ remembers. Tanaka suggested that I could write something too, if I wanted. I don’t think many get delivered. Not a lot of them want to hear from me.”  
  
“You write them anyway.”   
  
“Over and over again.” Bucky Barnes is a good man.    
  
That explains why the envelopes in Steve’s hands are crinkled but unsealed, the insides having been gutted and replaced multiple times. The fronts have been left blank. “There’s two here.”  
  
Bucky stumbles over the next words. “One for Howard, one for Maria.”    
  
And Tony wouldn’t take them, hasn’t taken them any of the times he’s visited because Bucky is right; he is not forgiven.    
  
“You don’t have to apologize, Buck.” Steve can’t let him depend on Tony. “Stark nearly killed you for something you didn’t - “  
  
Bucky turns away.  
  
As long as those letters remain unopened and Tony takes his time assessing the prosthetic arm then neither has to find out where they stand. They can coast by on stalemate. The idea is anathema to Steve. It seems to be working for them anyway.    
  
“Listen, I know Tony deserved better. I’m not that callous. I know he deserved a chance to make up with his parents. I know he deserves memories of them that aren’t tainted by how they died.” Steve’s not sure why his own words hurt to hear. “The world owed him more than that.”  
  
His next words are barely as whisper. “But _you_ don’t owe him. Let someone else carry that weight.” He wills every bit of faith he can across the gulf between them. “You owe it to yourself to get better with or without Tony. You deserve that.”    
  
Bucky motions to the twin envelopes. _Howard and Maria Stark_. His voice is raw. “And what do they deserve?”  
  
Steve tucks the blank envelopes next to his heart. One for each of the deaths that left Tony an orphan at seventeen. Howard and Maria are dead ends; left to linger in the written words of their killer and the complicated brilliance of their son.  
  
They deserve to be remembered.  
  
————————————————

He finds Tony on the roof of the Compound.  
  
FRIDAY lets him up without incident and that should have been his first warning. It’s still dark and the only illumination is the halogen light shining through the ripped hole in the North Wing roof and the glow of the arc reactor in the Iron Man armor that hovers nearby. Tony’s surveying the damage, standing too close to the crumbling edges, and Steve can see his face momentarily catch the light as he walks the circumference of the hole.     
  
The light also glints off the glass in his hand.  
  
There’s an amber bottle nestled underneath a lawn chair stationed to the right. It’s only been an hour at most and Steve tries to calculate the damage Tony’s done to it in that time. He tries to rein in the ball of regret/anger/disappointment that threatens to consume him.  
  
He must not be doing a very good job. Tony’s fingers twitch like he wants to hide the glass in his hand before he redirects the impulse. He motions toward the pit. “Crew will be in at first light to fix it. I’ll get Vision to put in a temporary seal when he wakes up. Or gets up I suppose since he doesn’t need to sleep but insists on trying anyway.”  
  
The night fills with silence.  
  
“That all you want to say?” Steve has to fight to keep his voice even.  
  
“I told Lewis I was playing with the GPS responder in the suit and it didn’t quite pinpoint my location as precisely as it should have.” Tony gives a small smile. “Good thing no one’s in the North Wing gym at one in the morning. No harm, no foul.”  
  
“You lied.”  
  
Tony laughs and it’s melodious. "You say that like you haven't seen me do much worse."

Stark doesn’t get mean when he drinks, far from it. He gets flirty and generous, giving away gifts and pieces of himself. The liquor smooths over his sharp edges, directs them all inward. Steve can see how tempting it is to enable this; to let Tony keep coming back to this place where he’s happy and his tongue mostly dulled.    
  
Steve will never be among them. “You’re drunk.”  
  
“On my way.” Tony punctuates that statement with a swallow from his glass. “FRIDAY already notified Natasha and I’m shut out of the workshop ’til I’m sober.”  
  
“That makes it better? You not being as _irresponsible_ as you could be? You’re an Avenger. You don’t get to opt out and break all your promises because you can’t handle the world sober. You need to be better than that.”  
  
Tony smiles and it’s utterly empty. “If only there was someone here who could step up in my absence,” his head lolls toward Steve, “but he won’t. He’s too much of an asshole and that’s coming from _me_. Likes to gives lectures of the _do as I say, not as I do_ variety.” His smile slips off his face. “So this little speech about responsibility towards the Team, means _jack shit_ coming from you, Cap.”  
  
“You promised Natasha.”  
  
Tony eyes flit to Steve. “And it turns out she was still lying to me.”  
  
“My visits to the North Wing had nothing to do with you.”  
  
“In that case let the record show I promised _you_ nothing.”  
  
Steve closes his eyes and counts down from ten. “Just tell me why.” He’s sure he’s not going to get an answer until -     
  
“It’s the only thing I know works.” Tony exhales and his breath crystallizes in the cold night air. “It slows everything down, calms my brain, warms me up. Not the healthiest coping method in the world but I’ve literally invented worse.”  
  
Steve feels the soft hook of guilt catch. “You’re drinking because I scared you.”  
  
“I’m drinking because I’m an alcoholic,” Tony stares at his glass, “and you don’t scare me.”  
  
As if a lie repeated enough times will eventually yield truth.  
  
Tony is not Steve’s responsibility, or his colleague, or his confidante. He’s not even sure they’re friends, but they used to be. It’s enough. Steve wanders over and collapses into the pink lawn chair. The polyester fabric strains under his weight. He grabs the whisky and takes two long slugs straight from the bottle.  
  
Tony looks… _surprised_ is too tame, _shocked_ carries too much fear. Tony looks _awed_.  
  
“What?” Steve asks and the delight he feels at leaving Stark speechless leaks through.  
  
Tony shakes his head. “It’s like watching Santa Clause masturbate.”  
  
“Thank you for that image.” Steve takes another swig. The liquor burns through his throat leaving a pleasantly smooth aftertaste and he doesn’t try to guess how much money he’s just swallowed. He can’t get drunk but every mouthful he takes is a mouthful Tony can’t.  
  
“You’re in my seat,” Tony says, finally taking the bait and wandering away from the open safety hazard. He settles onto the roof next to the lawnchair.  
  
Steve tips the two unaddressed envelopes from his jacket into Tony’s lap. “Take them.”  
  
Tony figures out what they are easily enough. “No.” He tosses them both toward the hole and they flutter down into the gym where they started.  
  
“Dammit, Tony.” Steve rubs his eyes with his palms because Stark being afraid of apologies is just one more of _those things_.  
  
The venom in Tony’s voice surprises him. “What the hell am I going to do with another letter? Let alone two.”  
  
“Why do you keep visiting if you’re never going to forgive him?” Steve can’t help but raise his voice back. “If it’s you being cruel for the sake of it, stop. Just… stop.”  
  
“This your version of the shovel talk? _What are your intentions with my best pal?”_  
  
“Well, are you going to try and kill him again?” Steve regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.  
  
“I only had the two parents. He kill anyone else I know?” Sober that remark would sting but Tony’s drinking so it rolls off his tongue without barbs.  
  
Steve takes several long, angry gulps of whisky to prevent himself from retorting. In contrast Tony draws himself inward, wrapping his jacket to ward off the chill.  
  
“I promised him he’d be safe here,” Tony finally says. “That includes from me.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have said that.”  
  
“Why not? You’d have thought it anyway. You begged me to help with the arm and when I refused you called me a coward. Now I’m actually helping him and you think I’m plotting murder.” Tony downs the rest of his drink. “I can’t win with you Rogers, and I’m starting to get sick of playing.”  
  
It’s ironic that that’s exactly how Steve feels about Tony.  
  
“So you’re just visiting for the arm.”     
  
“Well that and spite.”  
  
Something twists in Steve’s gut. “You really hate him that much?”  
  
“No. Not him. _Him. Zemo._ ” Tony shifts to lean back on his elbows. “I went to see him on my extended Christmas vacation.”  
  
“I didn’t know that.”  
  
“That’s odd, given you know so much about me.” Steve can feel the weight and warmth of Stark’s head on his thigh through the lawnchair. It’s so human. “He’s not a genius. That’s what I learned. I thought that he had to be; to play us all so thoroughly, but nope. He’s just a guy. He knew less than nothing about me, about you. He was just obsessively loyal and driven by revenge, and so saw it everywhere in everyone. That was his advantage: he’s only human.”  
  
Steve stares at the dark head turned away from him. “Aren’t we allowed to be?”  
  
Tony’s lips twist. “Well someone keep giving me speeches about being _better,_ and given the choice? Maybe not.”  
  
Steve chose. He wasn’t born a genius, his transformation wasn’t an accident. He volunteered. He wanted to be more and now he is, and it seems so unfair that he’s crumbling around the bits of himself that refused to change. The impurities the serum couldn’t burn out of him: nostalgia, stubbornness, problem solving with his fists.  
  
Steve steers them back toward more solid ground. “Zemo’s a psychopath.”  
  
“He’s killed fewer people than you,” Tony argues. “Fewer than Wanda, than the Winter Soldier, the Hulk, Thor. Me, of course. He’s ahead of Natasha as far as I know which isn’t that far. Barton’s somewhere around there too.”  
  
Tony doesn’t mention the other Avengers often. Not to Steve. The context sours it: Tony attributes deaths by some mysterious formula known only to himself. Steve doesn’t count the war, doesn’t count trickery or mind-control or indoctrination or survival.  
  
Getting dragged down into numbers with Tony is a moot point. “Zemo was the bad guy. The villain.”  
  
“So was I.”  
  
“ _No_.” Steve’s tone is definite. “You were never that. Even when we were at our worst - “  
  
“Fifteen years ago I revolutionized surface-to-air missiles using better fuel-payload ratios. No one told me to, heaven knows I didn’t need the money.” Tony exhales and the condensation rises like smoke. “But it never occurred to me to keep them to myself.”  
  
“You changed.”  
  
Tony doesn’t bother looking at him. “You didn’t.”  
  
Steve’s unsure which is the sin and which is the virtue. His fingers tentatively brush against Tony’s hair for whatever comfort they’re worth. He looks out at the stars with an artist’s eye. You can’t see them in the city proper but out here… pinpricks of _bright_ embedded in inky black. Hundreds, thousands, all shining down. Steve is used to feeling small but against the vastness of the Milky Way the smallness makes him feels safe instead of threatened.  
  
Bruce told him once from the top of Avengers Tower that to look at the stars was to see back in time. It made the future a little less lonely.  
  
“Beautiful,” Steve whispers.  
  
“No. Not even slightly,” Tony hauls himself unsteadily to his feet, “and they’re coming to kill us.”  
  
He moves with too much purpose towards the edge of the roof and in a flash Steve is on his feet and at his side, one hand wrapped deep in the back of Tony’s jacket, digging into the T-shirt below. Steve knows he’s stronger, faster, heavier than Tony. He knows he won’t let go.  
  
(Kovalchyk promised he would say something if anything had _changed_.)    
  
The Iron Man armor hovers over the edge, five feet beyond where the roof falls away. Tony turns to stare at Steve, gaze askew and not entirely from drink. Steve’s grip tightens subconsciously.    
  
“Let go,” Tony orders.  
  
“No.” Steve doesn’t think his fingers would come loose if he ordered them to.    
  
Tony’s eyes flash dangerously. “I may not be the poster child for responsibility but I’m not going to drunkenly stumble off the edge of a building. It’d only prove you right. Stop holding onto me like I’m a fucking toddler.”  
  
Trust Tony to read everything wrong. Steve’s not worried about being _right_. He’s worried about -  
  
He strains against every instinct in his body that’s screaming to just drag Tony away from the drop. He makes himself use words instead. “Come back from the edge.”  
  
They’re linked by Steve’s arm so when Tony steps too close Steve can’t move away. “Let go.” The order is cold and there is steel underneath.  
  
It’d be easier to trust Tony if he wasn’t like this: unpredictable and independent. Operating on knowledge you don’t have and that he won’t deign to tell you. (It’d be easier to trust Tony if Steve thought Tony trusted him back.)  
  
“ _Steve_ ,” Tony bites out and Steve flinches but holds on. Off to their right the suit raises its palms, repulsors forward.  
  
Steve can deal with Stark hating him but he’ll never forgive himself if Tony goes over the edge. He has watched one too many friends fall. “Please just step back. You can’t be drinking and that close to the edge. If you fell…” Steve inhales sharply. “If you fell and I did _nothing_ …”  
  
Tony isn’t distressed at all. “FRIDAY would catch me.”  
  
The armor is hovering close enough that if probably could but Steve shakes his head. He has to be sure so it has to be him. “You can’t trust your life to a machine.”

“But I’m supposed to trust _you_?” The words hang heavy in the air. “I have half a mind to jump just to prove my point. Final warning, Rogers.”  
  
In his peripheral vision Steve can see the bright lights of the repulsors aimed at him. Tony’s asking for trust and Steve can’t afford to make the same mistakes twice. That can’t be who he is, or at least it isn’t who he wants to be but he’s not known for his ability to change. It's why Erskine chose him. It's why he's losing Tony.

Steve unwinds his fingers slowly from the material and shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets.  
  
Tony doesn’t move at all, gaze sharp and assessing, like he doesn’t quite believe Steve capable of retreat. He doesn’t move away from the edge but he doesn’t move toward it either.  
  
Steve’s glad his hands are confined to his pockets. “Don’t jump.”  
  
There’s a moment of stillness and then the suit’s repulsors lower. “I’d be fine - “  
  
“I wouldn’t.” It’s torn from Steve’s throat. “Do you really hate me that much?”  
  
Tony stares at the stars like he’d rather an alien invasion than look at Steve. “Not often.”  
  
“You used to,” Steve remembers, “as a kid.”  
  
“I never said that.”  
  
“You did.” Tony still looks skeptical. “In Berlin.”  
  
Tony’s brow wrinkles in confusion before he hits upon the memory. He snorts, as if it wasn’t important at all - a tidbit thrown in the heat of the moment. “I was _six_ , Rogers, I will not be held accountable for my questionable taste in childhood idols.”

"I was your idol?"

"No, it was worse than that. Howard was my idol. He got to build amazing things and everyone loved him - or so I thought. And he loved you. Not romantically, you were just… the only good thing he ever had a hand in making. Or maybe he just missed the war when having a talent for making money and blowing shit up wasn’t _everything wrong with the country today_ .” Tony grimaces. “Back then I was pretty sure affection was a conserved quantity. I thought if _you_ never existed then maybe he'd have liked me better. I hated you because you were dead and it still wasn't enough.”

"Tony..."

He looks disgusted at his own faulty logic. “Eventually I learned better. You weren’t the problem.”

Tony picks up the unguarded whisky and Steve lets him. He stalks back to the edge to sit, legs dangling into the void. Steve takes a seat next to him, careful not to touch.  
  
Sitting side by side is easy for how seldom is happens.  
  
Tony’s fingering something from the inside pocket of his jacket. In the dark Steve can’t tell what it is until Tony draws it out and starts walking it across his fingers. It’s a poker chip.  
  
“I grew up to be my childhood hero, right down to his taste for liquor.” Tony’s smile is wry. “Dreams do come true kids.”  
  
Steve knows what it is now. “You can’t give up.”  
  
“You don’t get to be disappointed, Cap,” Tony rasps, “you gave up on me first." He downs a shot of whisky straight from the bottle and flicks the AA chip over the edge of the roof.

Steve watches it fall into oblivion. It doesn't make a sound.  
  
———————————————

With Natasha still off active duty they’re forced to call in reinforcements and Steve’s nervous. Beyond Fury’s initial meddling, the Avengers have always had pretty much carte blanche when it comes to field personnel. They adopted Natasha and Clint from SHIELD, they were there for Wanda, for Vision. It’s not like Steve made those decisions alone but as Field Leader he always got a vote.  
  
They don’t consult him at all this time. He doesn’t even know they’re adding someone until an agent mentions Rhodes got another flier conditionally cleared with the council and Natasha is taking ‘the new guy’ on a tour around the Compound. Steve wonders at what point it’s appropriate to introduce the brand new Avenger to the resident prisoner and then -  
  
“What’s up, man?” comes a familiar voice.  
  
It’s Sam, in the flesh, and Steve realizes he’s smiling with no effort at all.  
  
Of course it’s Sam. He’s worked with Rhodes, Nat and Vision before. He fits the Avengers’ new _fly high, fly fast_ motto. Steve couldn’t have chosen better himself.  
  
Sam himself looks a little bit older, a little bit wiser in person than their video calls would suggest. He’s in a civilian suit and it’s a good look on him. His hair is subtly longer and he seems leaner than before - details that don’t matter much on their own but stacked one on top of the other are indicators of just how much life has moved on since they saw each other last.  
  
It’s been a nine months since Sam departed to serve out his time in DC. Ten since he’d stepped off the plane ahead of Bucky but behind Steve to be arrested on the tarmac, seven since he was formally discharged from the army. It’s been three weeks since their last video call when Sam had expressed his horror at Steve’s new beard.  
  
“It looks even worse in person.” Sam eyes the facial hair and Steve is suddenly conscious of how different he looks since they last stood together. He doesn’t need to shave or keep his hair regulation short anymore. Now the length only serves to mark the passage of time.  
  
“I missed your unrelenting support too, Wilson.” He makes a face at Sam’s pink tie.  
  
“Hell no, I am not getting razzed for my suit choices by a man who can’t figure out how to buy T-shirts in the correct size.”  
  
It’s easy after that to fall into old patterns, worn over but not forgotten. They migrate to the kitchen and miracle of miracles no one follows them.  
  
“ - ‘probationary period’ for the next year,” Sam complains as he searches the fridge.  
  
“That’s excessive.”  
  
“Natasha bargained them down from _five_.” The bottles and jars in the fridge clink. “Why, in a building that houses Tony Stark, is there no beer?”  
  
“He’s trying to quit.” Sam peers over the door and Steve feels oddly put on the spot. He gestures toward the bare shelves behind the bar as evidence.  
  
“That’s… good.” Sam grabs two cans of lemonade instead and tosses one to Steve. “How long’s it been?”  
  
“Two days.” He feels the inescapable urge to defend Tony. “Before that it was longer.”  
  
Sam’s still nodding. “Functioning addicts are the hardest to convince. Rhodey told me he hit bottom over Christmas.”  
  
“Just after.”  
  
“Well, I pretty much just read between the lines. The guy’s a _teeny_ bit overprotective of Stark regardless of whether or not they’re on speaking terms.”  
  
“Wait, when was Jim in DC?”  
  
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Where did you think he’s been spending all his time since he moved out?”  
  
Steve… had no idea. _Away_. It’s becoming harder and harder to envision life outside the Compound, object permanence dissolving at its borders.  
  
Sam’s shaking his head. “Man, when Jim said you were out of it, _you are out of it_.” Carbonated lemonade sprays out of the can with a _fizz-snap_ saving Steve having to answer. “How’s our favourite one-armed bandit?”  
  
“Bucky’s doing well.” That’s what Tanaka always says. Never _cured_ or _better_ , just _well_. It took Steve a long time to realize he was never going to say it. That _restored_ wasn’t the goal. _Functional_ was the goal. _Safe_ , _lucid_ and further down the list, _happy_. It took him even longer than that not to feel cheated. As if upon getting Bucky back he was somehow owed a second miracle. “I think he likes it here.”  
  
Sam looks as surprised as Steve was when he’d worked it out. “That… can’t be easy to hear.”  
  
“All I can do is be here for him if that changes.” He’s been waiting for Bucky’s treatment to fall through since they arrived. It’s exhausting, being on alert for so long.  
  
“Can I at least get advance warning before we blow this joint next time?” Sam asks because of course he’d come with them. Even after all the negotiation to get him back in uniform, he’d throw his hat in with Steve again.  
  
Steve can’t help the soft smile forming on his face. “Deal.”  
  
“Thank the Lord.” Sam sinks into the sofa. “Preferably we should leave before they give me your job.”     
  
“Natasha will be back on her feet in a couple of weeks.”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “Not that job.” He fiddles with the tab of his lemonade. “ _Captain America 2.0._ Bigger, better, blacker. Less Mighty Whitey.”  
  
Steve wants to feel an ache, a yearning, even anger at the thought that the council think they can take that from him. Instead he feels… nothing. No relief, no stress, no indignation. No happiness either, but Steve never had a lock on _America_ and would never claim to.  
  
Also, it’s Sam.  
  
Sam who’s still waiting for an answer.  
  
“I look forward to it,” Steve says and even he’s puzzled by how even it sounds.  
  
Sam frowns. “What the hell, Steve. They’re trying to replace you, _while you’re right here_ , and you’re not even going to fight it? You can’t possibly think this ‘superhero by committee’ crap is fair and I know you didn’t ask, but I turned it down. I’ll ride this Falcon shit out as long as I can but the moment they try to dress me like a flag I’m out.” He shoots Steve a look. “That’s my own personal line in the sand, nothing to do with you. I just prefer a uniform that doesn’t have targets painted on my chest and head.”    
  
“That explains why everyone always seemed to be shooting at me.”  
  
Sam settles. “I can work with Nat, Jim and Viz. Had a nice run-in with Stark today too.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“No one got shot. He told me basic shit I already knew because the man forgets I’ve already been an Avenger, a whole ream of legal stuff that basically amounted to _keep your nose clean_ , and then he asked me if I knew.”  
  
It takes Steve a moment to follow the threads. “About his parents.”  
  
“Yeah. He buried the lede but I’m pretty sure that’s the question that’ll determine if I get thrown back in prison the next time I step out of line.”  
  
Steve’s heart is beating rapidly despite the lack of danger. “But you didn’t know.”    
  
“That’s what I said. Don’t know if the paranoid bastard believed me. He has me lumped in with you and Natasha so my credibility is shot on that front. I don’t know if it’s worse that he thinks I walk lock-step with whatever you decide or that he’s spent a year believing I sent him to Siberia to watch a video of his mother die on purpose.”  
  
“None of us did it on purpose.”  
  
“I know, Steve, but _shit_.”  
  
“It wasn’t that Nat and I didn’t trust you…”  
  
“But… ”    
  
Steve takes a deep breath. “But if I was going to tell someone it would have had to be Tony.”  
  
“And you didn’t.”  
   
Steve realizes abruptly, “You would have made me tell him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says without remorse, “and I don’t even particularly like the guy.” He takes a slow draw from his lemonade. “But believe it or not I didn’t actually drop in to talk about your bestie and frenemy. How are you doing, man?”  
  
Sam’s scrutinizing him intently and all of a sudden the warm feeling of reunion fades and Steve feels exposed. “Fine.”  
  
“You spent a year grounded in Big Brother’s house and the best you can give me is _fine_? It had to be balls out nuts from ground level; Jim moved out, Philly revolted against Stark, Natasha got shot, you grew a beard of sorrow…”  
  
Steve searches for a revelation that doesn't involve Tony in some way. “Vision’s trying to learn to dream.”  
  
“No shit. How’s that going?”  
  
“There are no electric sheep involved and unconsciously processing the day’s memories takes him all of 20 seconds.”  
  
“And you?” Sam looks at him and Steve can’t pretend he doesn’t hear. “How are you sleeping?”  
  
Steve just shrugs because _not well_ will only lead to more questions and _with Tony_ might cause a minor aneurysm. He feels like a frog placed in boiling water, nearly cooked by now, and Sam seems to be the only one alarmed.  
  
“‘Cause you don’t look great,” Sam continues. “I mean beyond your freakish figure you seem…” he shrugs without finishing. “Does Stark let you actually do anything around here?”  
  
Steve’s soda tastes artificial and too sweet. “Gym, running, drawing.”  
  
“Those are hobbies.”  
  
“All Avengers work is off limits unless I sign some version of the Accords and even then the rest of the world might not even take my word for it.”  
  
Sam nods. “Right, about the Accords… you should know I signed ‘em.”  
  
They wouldn’t have let Sam back in without it. Steve can hardly criticize, even by not-signing he’s playing by the Accords’ rules. It’s not a principled stand; he doesn’t run secret missions or invade countries for the greater good. He sits quietly on the couch while his team - absent him - carries on. “I figured.”  
  
Sam just observes him like he expects something different. “What are you still doing here, Cap?” he asks quietly.  
  
“I promised Bucky I’d stay.” It’s one of the only promises he hasn’t broken.  
  
“He’s happy here. Are you?”  
  
Steve can’t answer.  
  
Sam leans forward, concerned even though Steve hasn’t moved a muscle. “What do you want?”  
  
He wants to live in a universe where he can be _happy_ and _good_ at the same time. He wants people to have the same faith in him that he does in them. He wants - “I want things to go back to the way they were.”  
  
“Like 40s back?”  
  
“No. Before the Accords, before Ultron, and secrets. We weren’t perfect but - ” _So much promise_. “The longer I’ve been awake the worse things have become.”    
  
“Were things really that great?” Sam asks softly.  
  
The thing is… the thing is they _weren’t._  
  
Five years ago Bucky was still at the mercy of HYDRA but without hope of rescue. Scott was in prison, Sam was in mourning. Thor had lost his brother to madness, Wanda was at war. Clint was leading a secret life because he didn’t trust any of them with his family. SHIELD was infiltrated by HYDRA, Natasha couldn’t believe she’d ever have anything beyond the life of a spy. Tony was falling apart for all to see and no one bothered to look, and Bruce hadn’t yet remembered he was more than a monster.  
  
And Steve had hated the future with it’s loud, bright, fast colours because he had no idea how much worse it could get.  
  
“No. It wasn’t.” Nostalgia is a powerful drug.  
  
The past is a foreign country and horrible things have happened there.  
  
—————————————

On the anniversary of the UN bombing Avengers Compound goes on high alert. There’s a dull uproar around the world the following week; the merits of the Avengers and the Accords get dragged out and pawed over, interspersed with survivor interviews and ideologues on personal crusades. Steve watches rehashes of his own arguments in other people’s mouths and it doesn’t fill him with fire like it used to.

It’s been a year: the arguments haven’t changed, the UN hasn’t budged. It’s not Steve’s war anymore. He’s a retired figurehead, nothing more.  
  
He draws. Not from imagination but from memory. He sketches out lines in soft pencil, ripping the pages out and starting afresh as soon as the line starts to deviate from truth. He wastes dozens of sheets on perfectly serviceable outlines: too elegant, too staged, too beautiful. Editorializing in image is Steve’s old-fashioned, low-tech version of BARF: massaging the ugliness of his memories into something more palatable, something kinder.  
  
Steve doesn’t try to put an emotion to the expression on the figure’s face, he just fills in the lines as his memory dictates. It’s easier to concentrate on the details: the strands of hair held perfectly in place, the islands of light in wide black pupils.  
  
When pencil gets too blurry, Steve switches to pen. When that’s not enough he breaks out the watercolours buried at the back of his closet and mixes heavy golds, greens, blues, crimsons. (His memories are bathed in glorious technicolour regardless of how black and white they seem in the moment.) Once on the page the paints bleed into each other, haemorrhaging across the penned outlines.  
  
Then, too soon, it’s finished and ugly.  
  
It’s a portrait of a moment that doesn’t deserve to be memorialized: Tony in a badly lit Siberian bunker in the instant after he learned everything, the instant before everything went to hell. (Steve remembers raising his shield, falling a half-step back, anchoring his boots.) It’s only now once Tony’s staring back at him from the paper that Steve can tell what he’s thinking.  
  
It’s the heartbeat of grace before the fall. After Tony realized he’d lost before Steve ever told him they were playing; when he realized he’d compromised himself for someone who would never do the same for him. Before he fell to wrath and his other clambering demons. One last look before fate took them all.    
  
(In his memories Steve’s not paying attention: he’s already deciding where to hit when things go south. He’s chosen; Stark’s lost. Maybe Tony could read that in his face; maybe that’s when he decided that if no one cared why save himself.)

Steve tells himself he wants to be an honest man but if this is truth then he doesn’t want it.

The paints leech through the fibres of the paper, carrying colour deeper and deeper; ruining all the sheets below. It’s Steve’s fault; the paper is too thin, the colours applied too heavily but it still feels like Stark should share the blame for forcing his way onto the page. Tony staining everything.  
  
He grabs the sketchbook and wanders the halls until he finds himself in front of the guest room at the top of Tony’s workshop. He pushes open the door and finds Tony slumped inelegantly at the foot of the bed. Steve’s gaze immediately searches for the liquor bottle but it’s much worse than that. Tony’s staring off into space wearing the black BARF frames, fingers rubbing worriedly at his temple. He opens a pill bottle one-handedly and dry swallows two small white capsules.  
  
“What now, Rogers?” Tony doesn’t get to his feet but he does turn to face Steve.  
  
Steve can finally see him in full. Tony’s hair is dark brown, not the near black of the bunker. It’s longer now too, curling at the tips. There’s no purpling bruise under his right eye and the BARF frames draw attention to brown irises distinct from black pupils. His expression is weary and frustrated but there’s no anger, no betrayal.      
  
The artist in Steve had thought seeing Tony in the present would help. To see him without that expression of terrifying nihilism mixed with heartbreak that Steve can draw from memory alone. Instead it hurts in an entirely different way.

“You fixed them. The glasses.”  
  
Tony hums in assent.  
  
“I broke them. I’m sorry.” It rolls off Steve’s tongue naturally. It doesn’t hurt at all.    
  
“I know,” Tony shifts to his feet, ignoring the latter statement, “the system logs sessions automatically and Barnes told me the rest.”  
  
There’s nothing wrong with Bucky sharing with Tony. It’s what Tony could tell Bucky that causes anxiety to well in the pit of Steve’s stomach.     
  
Tony hasn’t taken the glasses off and Steve knows the moment he leaves Stark will dive right back into whatever memory he needs to relive and rework. It’s an especially bad week for BARF to become functional again and Steve wonders how deep Tony’s self-sabotage goes.  
  
“Anything else?” Tony asks.  
  
Steve doesn’t want to go back to drawing and see what new past awfulness flows out of his pen. He doesn't want to dwell in his memories and he can't let Tony do the same faster and more immersive and worse. 

Steve tosses his sketchbook onto the chair to show he’s not leaving. “Sam.”  
  
“And here I thought we weren’t going to do this,” Tony mutters. He rips the glasses off and Steve barely has time to count that as a victory. “I didn’t blackmail your buddy into signing the Accords. Believe it or not, the people who agree with me aren’t exclusively stupid or evil. Rhodey and Natasha recruited him. You have a problem with him switching sides, take it up with them. Or better yet, _him_.”  
  
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”  
  
“Alright, lets take a shot at your version.”  
  
“I was going to say _Sam didn’t know_.”   
  
Tony tenses. The unnatural stiffness travels through his body, his shoulders pinch, his arms fall to his hips. “ _Great_. Why Wilson would choose you as a character witnesses is a mystery, but message delivered.”  
  
Steve approaches him slowly like Tony's a wounded animal. He takes the BARF glasses from Stark’s hand and instead of breaking them for Tony’s own good, he folds them neatly and places them on the vanity. “Sam’s his own man. He can decide on the Accords himself.”  
  
“Alright…” Tony says suspiciously. Steve starts undoing Tony’s tie, the silk rushing through his fingers. Tony frowns. “You’re not fighting me on this.”  
  
“It’s not my decision,” Steve says as he carefully unbuttons Tony’s collar. “It’s not yours either.”  
  
“That’s never stopped us before. Do you really think we can get through _this_ ,” Tony brushes up against Steve’s body, “without a fight?”

“Want to bet?” Steve challenges because sometimes anticipating Tony is easy.  
  
Tony is staring at him with uncertainty, eyes tracking Steve’s every movement like he doesn’t quite understand this game. Then he nods sharply.  
  
“Don’t move,” Steve orders and before Tony can dispute it, “I just want to look.”  
  
He starts at the hollow of Tony’s throat, he runs his fingers along the corded muscle, memorizing the dips and strength. He brushes his fingertips through Tony’s goatee, the rough texture catching. He guides Tony’s head to the side and after momentary resistance Tony lets him. With his other hand he scratches his short nails along Stark’s scalp and Tony shivers but holds to Steve’s command, he doesn’t move.

It's breathtaking to watch.   
  
Steve catalogues all the differences between the Tony of his memories and the one standing in front of him. The laugh lines around still wary eyes, the pressure point at his temples that relaxes the tension through his jaw. He has a handful of grey hairs that look silver surrounded by a sea of dark brown. He studies every aspect closely; the sharp lines, the textures, the colours. He needs the memory of _now_ to drown out the memory of _then_.    
  
Tony’s not shy but he’s always played a game of _I have nothing to hide_ followed by _but don’t look too closely_ and Steve has let him win too many times. He unbuttons Tony’s shirt carefully and underneath finds skin marked in places, both temporarily and permanently. He ignores the scar tissue in Tony’s sternum but finds a series of faded burns on his left wrist. There are callouses across both his palms and a healed blast wound on his right shoulder. There are injection points dotted at intervals along his arms and high across his chest, the skin around them slightly pink.  
  
Trousers and underwear are next and Steve is momentarily transfixed by the taper of calf from knee to ankle. He steps back to frame Tony in his entirety, naked from head to foot. Tony twitches under his gaze and Steve doesn’t know if it’s anticipation or anxiety until Tony grins, takes himself in hand and _strokes_ -  
  
Steve averts his stare, propriety catching up with him. He can feel colour rush to his cheeks. Tony gives a small laugh from somewhere outside his field of view.  
  
Steve forces himself to turn back and tries for a steady voice. “I told you not to move.”  
  
Tony is unrepentant. “Wanna fight about it?”  
  
“God, _no_.”  
  
They make it to the bed and it’s still neither soft, nor beautiful, but it proves Steve’s point. They don’t need the anger. The fact that it’s common doesn’t mean it’s necessary.     
  
Afterward Steve feels numb in the best way. He’s tired and satisfied in a post-orgasmic haze. He watches without an inkling of fear as Tony dresses efficiently and pauses near the door. He picks up Steve’s sketchbook and the faintest of alarm bells begins ringing somewhere far, far away. Tony flips through the ruined pages, getting closer and closer to -  
  
Steve can tell the moment Tony’s found it by the expression on his face. It morphs from anger to self-disgust to hollowness. He stares, unable to look away from one of the worst moments of his life, immortalized now on a whim. It’s the best and only drawing Steve’s completed in 365 days and for all the pain it caused him, he never thought of what it could do to its subject.  

A year ago this week, Steve drove the edge of his shield as hard as he could into the arc reactor.

Tony tears his eyes away to look at Steve and for once his gaze is unguarded. He looks broken; like Steve’s buried his shield into Tony’s heart and started to dig. Ages ago Steve would have said it was a fitting reply to a damaged shield left outside a door. Now that he actually sees the pain writ large he wants nothing to do with it. He doesn’t know beyond begging for a time machine how to make things better. He needs to _say something_ but it feels like there’s a lead anvil sitting on his lungs.    
  
“You win,” Tony says hoarsely. He flips the sketchbook closed and Steve doesn’t know if he means in Siberia or the drawing or - “The bet. We didn’t fight.”  
  
He grabs the BARF system from the vanity and leaves.  
  
Steve makes himself as small as he can under the covers. This is their tightrope and Steve is starting to wonder if there’s anything on the other side or if it just stretches out ad infinitum.  
  
If this is the future then Steve doesn’t want it.  
  
—————————

It’s the Belgians who undo them.  
  
The Avengers’ most sophisticated lead on HYDRA is the work of one Dr. Carl Relsen and the doctors in the North Wing haven’t been able to hide their interest well enough. They think Relsen’s work will help fade the last of the control triggers and bring Bucky out of his plateau. They Avengers have tracked the splinter group to Antwerp but there’s a problem: the Belgians absolutely refuse to allow any subset of the team to cross their border. Their reasoning basically amounts to _we have our own police force, thanks but no thanks_. _We don’t want another Lagos_ goes unsaid but heavily implied.  
  
No one’s told Steve this directly. The conversation dies down whenever he approaches but the civilian medical staff never quite got with the program so Steve learns all this three days into the stalemate once relations have become tense enough that the Belgians have threatened to treat any incoming Quinjets as hostile.  
  
Steve remembers a time when incoming American planes carrying help to Europe were greeted with cheers. Instead Natasha pleads the Avengers’ case to a closed session of the EU who tell her, in considerably nicer words, to _fuck off_. The Accords back Belgium; the Avengers can’t prove the HYDRA splinter is planning an international attack, nor can they justify three flying tanks and a nigh-invulnerable android when Belgian special forces will do. The council won’t risk pissing off most of Western Europe by overriding the decision. The Avengers have already passed on the relevant surveillance information, their part is _over_.  
  
The Belgians have the civilian population of Antwerp to worry about and Steve understands that - he does - but it means they’d rather to let Reslen slip away rather than risk casualties. It’s an easy decision to make. They don’t know Bucky. They know _of_ him and they don’t care and if no one else is in Bucky’s corner then it’ll be Steve alone because Bucky deserves at least that.  
  
The Avengers can’t go to Belgium but Steve is not an Avenger.  
  
He packs light. It’s a one-man stealth mission, the Avenger equivalent of a smash-and-grab. He wants the information, nothing more, and he won’t compromise civilian lives to do it but he has to try. He still can’t bear to look at the wrapped shield when he grabs it from under his bed and slings it into a bag.  
  
He has to cross the Avengers active area to the Quintet hangar and the one advantageous side-effect of his long stretch of house arrest is that his presence no longer attracts attention. He walks through the hustle and bustle of agents and none of them give him or his duffle bag a second glance. He turns down a deserted hallway lit by a glowing exit sign. Eighty feet to total commitment.  
  
“Exactly where are you going?”  
  
_Why couldn’t Tony pretend not to see him?_  
  
Steve's jaw locks and he doesn’t answer as the mildly annoyed expression slips off Tony’s face and slides into alarm. Steve brushes past him and keeps walking. He doesn’t want a confrontation, he just wants to go. He just wants to help.  
  
“Wait - ! Hey!” Tony calls, voice falling farther behind as Steve picks up his pace. “The hangar doors are locked, Rogers!”    
  
Tony is correct. The doors are locked but that has never stopped Steve. Even through the layer of burlap, the first hit with the shield dents the triple-ply steel. The sound isn’t the sharp ring of years past but the vibrations the impact sends up Steve’s arm are familiar on their own.  
  
Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder and Steve whirls, fast and combat-ready. For all Tony’s tech and intelligence and words, Steve was _made_ for physical confrontation. It’s over before it begins and the unworthy part of Steve is thrilled at how easy it is to overpower him. He takes Tony to the floor in a single move; one hand bracing Iron Man’s gauntlet watch to the ground, the other splayed across his ribcage, keeping his chest pinned.

Under his palm Steve can feel Tony panic, breath shallow and stuttering as Steve looms over him. Instead of guilty it makes him feel powerful. His forearm is resting across Tony’s artificial sternum with heavy pressure and for a few pounds per square inch more he could snap it as easily as if it were bone.      
  
Tony’s bleeding from the mouth - he must have injured it on the way down. The blood is a stripe on his bottom lip and it streaks across perfect white teeth, crimson bright. Stark’s favourite colour. It’s the first blood either of them have drawn since Siberia.  
  
“Do your worst, Cap,” Tony snarls through clenched, bloodied teeth. He isn’t smiling. “The doors will still be locked.”  
  
“Why couldn’t you just…” _let me be, let me help, let me leave,_ “not be you?”  
  
Tony tries to laugh but can’t get enough air. “Believe me, I’m trying.”  
  
Steve spares a glance for the dented steel. “Tell FRIDAY to open the doors and you’ll never see me again.”  
  
“No deal. Get off of me.”  
  
The adrenaline in Steve’s system amplifies sensation tenfold. Tony bucks his hips up in a futile attempt to dislodge him and accidentally brushes against Steve’s growing interest. Proximity to Tony means one of two things these days and Steve’s body can’t tell the difference anymore.  
  
“Really, Rogers,” Tony looks truly angry now, “hitting me does it for you? _I’m not a sadist_ my ass.”  
  
“Shut up.” Shame pools in his gut.  
  
Tony bucks his hips again, deliberately this time, and Steve bites his lip at the pressure. Tony’s expression is vicious. “So have you been fighting me all this time out of some repressed urge to fuck me, or should I be glad we're having regular sex because otherwise you’d have killed me by now?”

It’s Tony’s fault he makes Steve feel so much; out of control and lashing out in any direction but even if Tony is the instigator the sickness lies in Steve. Tony just brings out the worst in him: the liar, the coward, the bully, but it was all there under the surface, waiting.  
  
Steve needs to leave for both their sakes. He can render Tony unconscious, hammer his way through the doors and be on his way to Belgium before Stark wakes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.  
  
“I’m not,” Tony spits.  
  
Tony's left hand curls around the side of Steve’s neck and Steve can feel the augmented strength of a gauntlet press into the flesh of his throat, sleek metal the exact temperature of the human body. He can feel the pulse of power against his skin, can hear the palm repulsor charging at point blank range. Tony can’t miss. Not this close. Not with Steve’s forearm pressed over his fragile beating heart. Steve still has the gauntlet watch is pinned to the ground. Where on Earth did the second one come from?

“Tony…”  
  
The repulsor sings.  
  
Steve catches a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye. Like molten lava a tide of liquid metal comes flowing down Tony’s gauntleted hand, wrapping his arm. It bubbles out of his _skin_ , flooding his chest and throat and legs, coating him in gold like a man under Midas’s touch. Steve drops back in horror. The dark red plates of the Iron Man armor assemble overtop and Steve counts five visible arc reactors in constellation across the chestplate. He scrambles back as the Iron Man gets to his feet, fully armored sans helmet.  
  
Steve looks into dark eyes and finds nothing he recognizes there. “What did you do to yourself?”  
  
Stark smiles, properly bitter, but at least he still sounds like Tony. “What you told me to. I made myself _better_.”  
  
Steve wants to know when Tony started experimenting on himself. When he decided to double down on the machine over the man to make up for the flaws he sees in his own humanity. How long he's been _this_ in disguise: a man who cannot afford to trust and so made himself into someone who never had to.  
  
“We’re not getting better, are we.” Steve’s voice is hoarse. He knows it for truth.  
  
“Why the hell would we be?” Stark snipes back.  
  
Steve can hear the sounds of people running down the hallway towards them. He doesn’t have time. “Just let me go. I can help in Antwerp. Then I’ll come back or stay away, whichever you want.”

The helmet assembles, obscuring Stark’s face and in some ways that makes it easier.

“Please, just… trust me. I’ll do whatever you need me to.” Steve holds his hands out in surrender. “I promise.”  
  
Iron Man’s voice is stripped of everything human. “ _I don’t believe you._ ”  
  
Four words and nothing’s changed. A year on and all for naught.  
  
There’s a repulsor flash and then nothing.  
  
———————————  
  
Steve wakes up in his own room.

The shield waiting for him: dumped on top of his bedspread in its burlap sack, haunting him like an old ghost. In the centre of his own chest is a fading red circular imprint from a repulsor.

The door is locked from the outside.

Meals are delivered like clockwork and once upon a time the boredom would have had Steve climbing the walls. Now he checks the door periodically and sleeps in a daze the rest.

FRIDAY only lets him out once the Belgians have come through. Special forces hit the HYDRA contingent on a rural highway 48 hours after leaving Antwerp. No casualties. It takes them a week to comb through the acquired intel and hand copies over to the Avengers but it happens. A perfect, politically-correct, hands-off success. They won’t always be so lucky.  
  
Stark comes by once.  
  
When he knocks Steve knows better than to open the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me!
> 
> Have a chapter where Steve and Tony behave super similarly and neither recognizes it. This is the most violent this fic gets, it's all up/downhill from here. I like to think Steve is _finally_ realizing that he knows very, very little about what's going on in the lives of the people around him. He is surprised by Bucky and Tony, Sam and Rhodey, and Tony's extremis update all in one chapter. 
> 
> Why Belgium? Why not?
> 
> A heads up that the next update will be two weeks from now. Turns out I ate all of my lead time already so in the interest of not rushing the conclusion we're looking at the end of February.


	5. Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sets of keys dictate the fate of the world.  
>  _Don’t come back this time, Rogers. Don’t send me a letter or a goddamn flip phone. Just find yourself a nice block of ice and bury yourself at sea._

Steve learns something important in the eight days he spends as an actual prisoner of Tony Stark. He loses himself in the utter mess that is the life he chose and hates. He can’t keep lying to Bucky and stealing half-measures of affection from Stark. He mourns the loss of his closeness with Natasha and resents the effort it takes to put up a front for Sam. He misses Clint and Lang, Thor and Bruce, but they’re free while he’s not and he hates them for that too. He can’t bring himself to cheer when Wanda pulls herself up without them because they were all supposed to win and lose _together_.  
  
Steve is losing alone.  
  
He hates that surrounded by people he cares about he has managed to lose everything. He hates that he can’t stop himself from sabotaging what little he has left. Something or someone has to change and everyone else already has. He feels like the lone straggling survivor after a disaster, staring at the rubble and unable to move on while around him the world adapts. Bucky’s re-emerged, Natasha’s a leader. Wanda’s left home, Sam’s struck out on his own. Vision’s becoming more human and Stark dug under his skin to become something less. Steve’s the only one who hasn’t changed. He doesn’t know how. He’s lost.  
  
He wanders the Compound, unable to reorient himself. The stretches between visits to Bucky or Natasha lengthen and neither calls him on it. Sam seeks him out for coffee but as good as it feels in the moment it only leaves Steve emptier when he leaves. The only person whose presence he can handle is Vision who doesn’t have that sixth sense for human distress that leaves him so vulnerable around the others. Tony fades into the background and Steve doesn’t miss him.    
  
He watches from the sidelines as Natasha and Bucky spar in the North Wing and the pair of them are a thing of beauty. Twin figures sleek and deadly, more akin to a dance than a fight. Natasha’s back on her feet and her form is improving as her body heals. Bucky’s arm is no longer the weapon it once was but it doesn’t slow him down. Neither of them are taking it easy but they make it look so simple that the doctors don’t notice.  
  
Natasha hits the mat and laughs unevenly. It startles Steve to hear something so imperfect and raw.  
  
“я выигрываю,” Bucky says in a flawless accent Steve’s never heard from him before.  
  
Nat smiles her small, uneven smile as Bucky offers his hand like a gentleman and Steve can hear the universe click into place around them. He has always believed in soulmates and now he _knows_ , even before they do. He’s happy for them, individually and together, but he watches the soft curve of Bucky’s smile and understands that this is what it is to lose before you even knew you were playing.    
  
Rhodes comes back in June. Tony walks into the Avengers active area with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and there’s Jim, a half-step behind. He’s got new titanium leg braces and the same half-exasperated, half-intrigued expression he’s always worn when listening to Tony chatter on about a new project. It could be a scene from six months ago or six years ago. Tony leaves him to deal with the relieved handshakes and _welcome backs_ from the Avengers support staff and Steve waits for them to peter out before making his presence known.  
  
“I’m glad you’re back.” He means every word.  
  
Rhodes nods but his smile slips just a bit. “How’s he been?”  
  
There are so many reassurances and damnations on the tip of Steve’s tongue. Telling the truth feels like piling more weight on top of a man undeserving of it but lies have never served him well. “I don’t know.” It sounds so inadequate. “He missed you. He regretted you leaving. Beyond that… We don’t really talk.”  
  
Rhodes’s expression hardens. “I know.”  
  
Steve never actually found out what caused their fight but it occurs to him now that maybe it wasn’t just _Tony_. That maybe Jim knows about Siberia and the simmering resentments, the demands to prioritize Bucky’s care and the infrequent trips to bed, the weight Steve added to Tony’s life until Jim couldn’t bear to stick around and watch anymore.  
  
“It was me, wasn’t it.” Steve can feel something shrink inside him, peeling his lungs away from his ribcage. “Your fight was about me and him.”  
  
Rhodes just looks out over the railing. “Yes and no. You featured but I don’t think you cracked the top five topics. If I thought you were the main problem I’d tell you.”  
  
Just a symptom then. “We stopped. I know you didn’t ask. We’re not…” _talking, arguing, fighting, touching,_ “…anything. It wasn’t helping.”  
  
“No shit.” It’s obvious in retrospect and to everyone else.  
  
“He quit drinking. He turned himself into a machine.”  
  
Jim doesn’t take it as the condemnation Steve means it to be. “Yeah, he wouldn’t shut up about it. I haven’t seen him so excited to experiment on himself in years.”  
  
That’s the difference between them. What is abhorrent to Steve is shiny new tech to Rhodes.  
  
“I’m glad Tony has you back.”  
  
“He never lost me.” Rhodes looks as unflappable as ever. “Believe it or not between my own shit and Tony being Tony this happens about once every five years or so. I met him when I was nineteen, we’ve had a lot of practice.”  
  
Jim’s been gone for six months and now he’s back, casually discussing his relationship with Tony like it’s a driver’s licence renewal: something you can occasionally fail at because if you both want it strongly enough you can just try again. He makes it seem so simple, like Leonardo da Vinci explaining how to paint.  
  
Steve wishes him and Tony were the type of friends who could scream obscenities at each other and then sift through the ashes later for the good-hearted meaning buried below but they’re not. He doesn’t know if they ever were. Steve never chanced it and then they broke under the weight of things unsaid.  
  
“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around,” Rhodes says with an outstretched hand.  
  
Steve shakes it automatically but he doesn’t say anything back.    
  
The next week Wanda’s granted conditional citizenship in the Netherlands. It’s not a surprise, her amnesty paperwork has been in the queue for months. She video calls to tell Steve personally even though the differing time zones make it difficult. In the background behind her beaming face Steve sees the _swish_ of Vision’s cape. He runs into Kovalchyk that same night making a cup of tea for himself and a mug of coffee for Tony. He nods at Steve and disappears into the elevator.     
  
The last straw turns out to be a blank postcard. It shows a sunset over a shear rock face in Yosemite National Park. It’s addressed to Natasha in a tight scrawl Steve recognizes as Clint’s. He slowly turns the card over and over in his hands. Outside the window Vision, Falcon, Iron Man and War Machine are practicing aerial formations and attacks. Someone’s laughing.  
  
Steve releases the breath he’s been holding for years.  
  
———————

Nothing is special about the day Steve walks away. The idea doesn’t hit him like a thunderclap, it just creeps up on him during his morning run: _you don’t have to go back_. It’s true: Steve isn’t vital to any part of the Avengers machine anymore. No one’s asking his opinions, no one’s waiting on his shield. Only a handful of people will acknowledge his existence today and none of them will call him Steve. Another twelve hours of _Captain_ or _Mister_ or _You_. Dinner will be cold leftovers followed by restless sleep and tomorrow morning he will be right back here on this path, going nowhere except in circles.  
  
His feet carry him off the beaten path and into the world. His last promise broken. He hopes Bucky forgives him.  
  
There is no plan, no mission. He leaves with the clothes on his back and nothing more. He runs for hours and it feels like the freedom he chases in his dreams. He picks the most scenic routes, Ross be damned. Eventually he slows, revelling in the soreness of tired legs as he walks along the gravel shoulder, aimless except for the mantra of _away, away, away_.  
  
He stops at a tiny roadside diner because he’s hungry and because he can. He has his pick of empty tables and slides into a cheap plastic booth. The lone waitress doesn’t recognize him; he’s nobody without his shield and cowl, just another bearded tourist passing through. He orders a single coffee with his only cash and watches a baseball game on the TV mounted in the corner. The coffee is watery and burnt but the free cherry pie the waitress brings him is sweet enough for both.  
  
He hears the roar of the car’s engine long before he sees it. He already knows what it means. No one can outrun the future, not even the healthiest human specimen on Earth. He could try to flee but God help him, Steve is the type of man who can’t help but look back: to Bucky and draughty houses and the small scales of human endeavour that have all but disappeared. Critics would say he has been rewarded as such a man deserves: skewered in a futurist’s private collection.  
  
The bright lemon yellow of a Lamborghini rounds the bend, lithe body racing too close to the ground as it pulls into the diner parking lot. Steve just stares into his coffee and waits for the future to catch up to him.  
  
“What the hell, Rogers?” Stark hisses as he enters.  
  
It’s strange, Steve hadn’t spared a thought for Tony when he left but now here he is, in all his contradictory glory: ratty T-shirt and jeans with thousand dollar sunglasses and a hundred-thousand dollar car. The feeling it induces is nearly fond instead of exasperated. Already Tony has begun to fade into memory, the prickles smoothed over in nostalgia.  
  
“Tony.”  
  
“Last time I checked you were on house arrest. There’s literally only one rule: _stay near the goddamn house_. Get in the car, we’re going back.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“I’m done.” It’s been true for awhile. Tony was right, he’d called it back on the Helicarrier years ago, Steve is a relic.  
  
“Tough. The world isn’t done with you. Car. Now.”  
  
When Steve doesn’t move Tony pulls off his sunglasses and slides into the booth opposite him. The waitress reappears and while Steve flew under her radar she definitely recognizes Tony Stark.  
  
Tony’s charm flips like a switch and he gives her his most dazzling smile. “Hello there, we’ll take a spinach omelette, the French toast, and a BLT. We could use some privacy too if you could swing it.”  
  
“Of course, Mr. Stark,” she beams back. She scribbles down the order and flips the _Closed_ sign on the front door before running to tell the cook who’s just shown up.  
  
“How did you find me?” Steve croaks.  
  
“FRIDAY was worried when you didn’t come back for breakfast.”  
  
“Breakfast.”  
  
“Apparently you’re a creature of habit. You didn’t return and she woke me up pretty concerned I was going to find you dead somewhere on Avengers property.”  
  
That’s not right: it’s _Tony_ everyone should be worried about. The fact that FRIDAY thought -  
  
Steve swallows. “I wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“I know.” Tony taps his water glass. “So I drove around to the six nearest restaurants because you missed breakfast and you can’t afford the calorie deficit.” The food comes and he nudges all three plates towards Steve. “Eat.”  
  
There’s a gnawing emptiness in Steve’s belly. He ignores it on principle. “I’m not hungry.”  
  
“Really? Because from the outside this looks like the world’s shoddiest escape plan. What’s the next step Master Tactician, survive on coffee and run away on foot? To where?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” _Somewhere I’m needed._  
  
Tony gives a barking laugh, more hyena than human. “I can’t believe I used to think you knew what you were doing. I literally followed you into the jaws of death and despite constantly yelling at me for making shit up on the fly you’ve been doing the same goddamn thing.” He runs a hand over his face. “God you were such a hypocrite.”    
  
“You’re being one now.”  
  
“I prefer the term _experienced_.”  
  
“If leaving’s a mistake then it’s mine to make.” Steve’s calmness is slowly melting away. “And my mistakes don’t endanger the world.” _Unlike yours._  
  
“No,” Tony’s eyes are flint, “your mistakes just break other things.”  
  
The tension ratchets upward until the damn breaks. Tony’s left hand disappears under a layer of gold and Steve instinctively pins his wrist to the table by the sleeve of his shirt, unwilling to touch the pulsing metal. Steve's Pavlovian response to Tony’s instigation has a secondary component though and part of him wants nothing more than to force Tony over the table and prove to him that Steve is still in control.  
  
Tony shoots him a dark look like he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking. “Oh, we’re well past the point where you screw me, Rogers. We’re now at the part where you leave me with your shield and run off to bury your head in the sand for 3 months. Except I get to keep Barnes in the divorce this time. I’ll ask him if he’s up for another round of cryo - ”  
  
“Leave him out of it.” Tony knows what a sore spot Bucky is. “When I surrendered, you promised me he’d be safe - you promised _him_.” Steve releases the sleeve and watches gold drain back into bones. “Take the victory, Tony. Even if I leave you’ve still _won_.”  
  
Tony throws his hands up. “This is me winning is it?”    
  
“You got what you wanted. You refused to release BARF so you got Bucky under your thumb. You got Wanda exiled for disobeying you. Natasha hates her job and is being _eaten alive_. Clint and Scott won’t risk coming home. You’ve got the Avengers and the Accords and the world on you side. It’s your future, we just have to live in it.”  
  
“ _Fuck. You. You self-righteous prick_ ,” Tony says, agitated and eyes flashing. “Wanda lives in a cushy apartment in Amsterdam. I tried to save her visa once and you crucified me for it so maybe don’t play chicken with the US State Department. I take another chance on Natasha because _fifth time’s the charm_ and that’s me doling out punishment? I made Barnes an arm, spent millions of dollars on the rehabilitation of my mother’s murderer - “  
  
“That’s control!” Steve can’t resist stabbing a slice of french toast and dragging it onto his plate. “You always give more than your share because you want something back. It’s the reason you’re buying me eggs and french toast now. It’s why you gave the Avengers _everything_ \- ”  
  
“And all I wanted back was some fucking _help!”_ Gold dances on the surface of Tony’s skin, an unconscious reaction to stress.    
  
Steve waits for the shimmer to fade, his voice is cracked. “You fix things Tony, but people aren’t things.”  
  
Tony stares out the window at nothing. “Why am I even asking you? You don’t fix anything at all. You break them and then wait around for someone else to repair it. You don’t even try.”    
  
Something inside of Steve crumbles.  
  
Tony’s not done. “You hung around for an entire year doing nothing but watching me scramble and fail. I kept you out of the Raft but house arrest apparently isn’t lenient enough. I gave you your best friend back when I should have been dealing with mine and you’re upset _he’s not like before_. I returned the shield you literally drove into my heart and you yelled at me for _not fixing it for you_.” Tony laughs, high-pitched and hysterical. “I even let you fuck me to keep you here so what exactly does it take with you, Rogers?”  
  
Steve’s world stutters to a halt. “What do you mean you _let me?”_    
  
“Not like that,” Tony sneers like a grenade hasn’t just gone off, “and the sex was surprisingly good considering I was being punished for being me _and_ for not being Barnes at the same time.”  
  
Steve’s fingernails make little crescents of bloodless white where they dig into his palms. “That’s not what I was doing. ”  
  
“You’re not subtle. I only got bruises on the days after you visited Barnes because I’m still good enough for sex but you can’t stand to look at me. I voice an opinion you don’t like, you crowd me against a wall and choke me on your dick. When you can’t sleep, or when Natasha ignores you, or when you’re just bored, you come around and pick fights. When I actually manage to do something _good_ you show up to put me back in my place. It’s always you.”  
  
“That’s not true, the night Rhodes left you - “  
  
“ - sure let’s concentrate on the one mistake I made and not on the literal dozens you did. Because that’s not what always happens.”  
  
Steve reached and Tony gave. It was never a power play or showing off, it was whatever Tony thought Steve wanted.  
  
Steve voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel. “You never said no.”  
  
“Don’t sell yourself short Cap, hate sex with science’s perfect specimen isn’t much of a burden. You needed a release valve and I got to keep you at the Compound. As a bargain it was working until Belgium. You’ve accused me of whoring before - Congratulations, it’s true.”  
   
“I never said that.”  
  
“FRIDAY told me you think I’m trading my body for media exposure.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“No.” Tony steals a piece of french toast from Steve’s plate. “Were you actually concerned or just being a possessive bastard?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Steve finally admits. It’s a tangled mess of both. “I didn’t like seeing you hurt.”  
  
“Not going to paint a pretty picture of it later then?”

Tony doesn’t look up, so he misses Steve’s expression of horror. This is who Tony thinks he is. This is who he _is_ to Tony. Someone who revels in the thrashing pain of others. He watches the fake, too-sweet pancake syrup drip off the last soggy square of French toast and wonders how it's come to this.  
  
“You’re right,” Steve whispers and Tony freezes. “I’m not helping. I’m not fixing anything. I’m just using you.” He feels the last sliver of himself slip away. He is no longer a soldier, or Captain America, or a good man. “I trust you to do what you think you need to. I trust Tanaka with Bucky, I trust Nat and Sam. Rhodes and Vision. You don’t need me.”  
  
“Of course we need you.”  
  
“No -”  
  
“ _ **I** need you._” It comes out the same way Tony spits _alcoholic_ , or _Howard_ , like it’s some deeply ingrained part of himself he despises. A weakness of character.  
  
Steve made a promise back in that letter that Tony burnt to ash; to come when called. Captain America doesn’t break promises or abandon people. Steve can and does and Tony knows it.    
  
“Happy now?” Tony’s expression shuts down. “I need you present, accounted for, and moderately functional for the shitstorm that’s about to hit because I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I am a fucking _mess_ right now and we can’t both be in pieces at once.”  
  
Steve can’t fix anything, certainly not himself. “That’s not on me. Please don’t put that on me.”  
  
“Well one of us has to get our shit together soon, Spangles. Popular preference and past experience would dictate it has to be you. Given the choice no one’s betting on me.”    
  
Steve feels like a glacier, doomed in stages, while Tony could reignite in an instant. “I would.”  
  
Tony gives a tight, twisted smile. “You let a team of mad scientists lock you into a metal coffin and turn you into a perfect soldier. You almost let the Winter Soldier kill you because you were convinced he was still your old friend. Then you told one hundred countries to go hang because you knew better. You bet on yourself every time.”  
  
It’s hard sometimes to separate Stark’s startling brilliance from his very human fallibility.  
  
“I _lost_ those bets, Tony.”    
  
There’s silence after that. Tony crosses his arms and stares out the window while Steve moves pieces of cold spinach omelette around his plate. The french toast isn’t sitting well in his stomach.  
  
“I didn’t know that’s what you thought we were doing,” Steve says finally. “It wasn’t what I thought we were doing. You were always so angry at me and I was always so angry at you… We couldn’t fight, and we couldn’t talk without it leading to a fight.” Tony still isn’t looking at him. “I just took what I could get from you because it was the only thing I thought you’d give me. It was selfish but I thought we’d burn off all the anger and at the end… There’s nothing left, is there.”  
  
Tony exhales through his nose. “I don’t know, I’m still pretty stuck in _angry_.”  
  
Neither of them had bothered rebuilding the broken bridge between them. Tony was busy smoothing over their edges with sex and Steve was waiting around for someone else to come fix it. They have to stop.  
  
True to form at the exact moment Steve’s having this revelation, Tony’s having the opposite.

“But we can find out. Come back, nothing has to change.” Like it’s all a transaction to him.  
  
It makes Steve irrationally angry to see a man with so much pride have so little of it in this. Even without knowing what lurks under Tony’s skin Steve doesn’t think he could bear to touch him ever again. “You could just ask me to stay.”  
  
“That was literally the first thing I asked when I got here, you said no.”  
  
“You yelled _get in the car_.”  
  
“How about _I can only cover your disappearance for so long before Ross realizes you’re missing?”_  
  
“That's… longer.”  
  
The corners of Tony’s lips twitch, the beginnings of a smile. He can’t hide his earnest longing well enough. “Come back, Cap.”

There’s nothing Steve can bring himself to say. It reminds him of that moment in Siberia when he didn’t answer and Tony knew anyway. Already Tony’s shaking his head like he’s just waiting to hear it confirmed that nothing he does is enough to warrant Steve staying. They’ve spent a year discovering new ways to hurt each other before falling back into the same old ones. Steve has spent the last twelve months wasting away at the Compound and he can’t bring himself to volunteer to return to it. He can’t wait around endless days for a calamity dreadful enough they call him back into service. It will turn him in something else long before then: a hollowed-out tin soldier with no inner life of his own.    
  
“I can’t go back.” He knows he’s severing whatever thin thread of hope is keeping his friendship with Tony on life support.  
  
“You mean you _won’t_.” Tony’s voice is harsh. “You’re just going to abandon them? Bucky and Natasha? Sam? I suppose it’s comforting to know I’m not the exception.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“That’s not enough and whoever taught you it was was an asshole.” Tony stands abruptly and his left hand is shaking. “Don’t come back this time, Rogers. Don’t send me a letter or a goddamn flip phone. Just find yourself a nice block of ice and bury yourself at sea.”  
  
Then Tony’s on his way out and it’s too late for so many things. He turns for one last parting shot and Steve is mesmerized. The gold undersuit is leaking out of his palms, streaking colour across his neck and face, the metallic hue made more vibrant by the late morning sun. “…upgrade was supposed to fix this,” Tony mutters as he flexes his fist, trying to get the tremors and the reactionary gold under control.  
  
Even if the undersuit does no harm, it’s still a battle Tony’s losing. It looks like he’s being swallowed from the inside out by a monster. Like he’s caught in the pull of the undertow, dragged under to drown under a sea of perfect gold, and Steve doesn’t know how to help. He’s not even trying. Instead he stares at the car keys clutched in Tony’s fidgeting left hand. They eat up his field of vision until they’re all he can see.

 _Purpose_ has to start somewhere, even with something small. He is no longer Captain America or a superhero or Tony’s friend, but he used to be all three a long, long time ago. Maybe the forest can wait for this one particular tree.  
  
“Let me drive.”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“I’ll drive. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel like this.” He can see Tony bite his tongue around the _no_ that’s forming. “Please.”  Steve holds out his hand and Tony stares at it with the same wary look he wore the first time they had sex and Tony had tried to reason out Steve’s motives. When he decided that anything intimate between them was a trade instead of an offer. Now he looks like he’s wondering if Steve’s about to steal his car.  
  
It hurts to stay still but Steve holds himself fast. He just watches, vaguely hypnotized, as Tony jiggles the clinking keys in contemplation, the weight too light for the very real possibility they hold the fate of the world.  
  
Tony flicks his wrist and tosses the keys to Steve. His voice is raw. “Can’t have me die in an actual car accident can we? I’d never escape the irony.”  
  
The keys are still warm in Steve’s palm. “I’d prefer you didn’t die at all.”  
  
The yellow paint of the Lamborghini is glossy and obnoxious but the leather is cool as Steve slides behind the wheel. He makes a show of checking the mirrors so he doesn’t have to look at Tony in the passenger seat.  
  
Steve stares straight out the dashboard. “I know you’re trying.” _I know you're d_ _rowning_. “I - I’m going to help. If you let me, I’ll help.”  
  
From this angle he can see past Tony's sunglasses to the tired crinkles around brown eyes. “Just drive, Rogers.”  
  
Steve turns the ignition and engine comes alive with a deep, purposeful roar. It is not a quiet sound and it drowns out all the things they do not to say.  
  
———————————

Nothing changes.  
  
Steve’s decided, he’s committed, (made another vow he swears he won’t break) but his internal resolve doesn’t translate into external action. Inertia carries him forward and a single step off the well worn track seems impossible. He doesn’t know where or how to start. He doesn’t even know how to articulate the problem. He thinks about cornering Kovalchyk, or asking his lawyer, or saying _hey Sam, I’m not fine_ , but he finds himself nodding along and smiling as he lets every opportunity pass him by.  
  
This is how he fails; alone and aware and disappointing.  
  
“I need help.” He only says it when he’s alone and it can do no harm. “I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” His reflection in the new coffee pot says nothing back. “I don’t know how to fix this.”  
  
There’s not another soul in the kitchen. It’s empty, but not quite. There’s a slight hum and the screen behind Steve lights up in blue. It’s a list of names, all with the prefix Doctor and with their SHIELD background checks attached. Steve has been trapped under FRIDAY’s watchful eye for an entire year and even if she wasn’t speaking to him she saw all of it and she never got to turn away. It’s no mystery why she hasn’t forgiven Steve.  
  
It’s a wonder she’s chosen to help him now.  
  
“Thank you, FRIDAY,” he hesitates, “I miss your voice.”  
  
She doesn’t answer.  
  
Steve scrolls through the ten names, a plan of action coalescing in his mind.  
  
————————  
  
Her name is Dr. Francesca Blancard. She’s a Professor Emeritus at Pennsylvania State and did a bunch of pioneering work in veteran reintegration and the lack thereof after the Vietnam war. More to the point, she’s lovely. Seventy-two and spry, gardening away in her retirement and widowhood in a small cottage just north of Martha’s vineyard.  
  
Steve’s permitted twice-weekly visits to her house, provided he wears a tracker. No one else knows; the specifics get buried under doctor-patient confidentiality, and the Accords council has reached a state of bored apathy when it comes to Steve's fate. That an agreement is reached is not as much of a surprise as Steve’s team of lawyers. They’re enthusiastic about the fight, eyes lighting up with the same determination he saw in the Avengers before a mission. It’s unnerving to know he had this force at his beck and call.  
  
“Glad to do it,” Penelope Nirin says with a shark-like grin. “We’ve been waiting an entire year to be asked for something we could actually give you.”  
  
So Steve ends up in sitting in Dr. Blancard’s sitting room as she passes him a glass of lemonade. The knuckles of her hands are swollen and on the wall are framed pictures of her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren. There are collars from a succession of Shetland sheepdogs and fresh daffodils in a vase with old petals scattered underfoot. Her husband’s urn is on the mantle and there’s a plate of crumbs resting atop it; the remnants of blueberry crumble. The current sheepdog is old and deaf and chewing on Steve’s sneaker underneath a shelf of awards. It is a portrait of a life of accomplishment, knickknacks, and loss but it is still alive, still growing.  
  
“Call me Francesca. Since I’m no longer practicing and Georgie’s stolen your shoe, _Dr. Blancard_ may be bit formal.”  
  
“Steve.” He hasn’t been Captain America in over a year.  
  
“Why are you here, Steve?”  
  
“An angry AI gave me your name and I trust her judgement.” He looks up and Francesca doesn’t bat an eye. “I don’t really know how this is supposed to work.”  
  
“It depends on what you want to get out of it.”  
  
Steve stares down between his knees. “I want to stop making things worse. I don’t know how to say the right words. I feel like I’m losing things when I know I never had them in the first place. I can’t keep promises. I’m… stuck. And everyone else has moved on.”  
  
“What would being unstuck look like?”  
  
Steve pretends he’s speaking to an empty room. “Helping people. I just want to help.” It’s so simple and it’s cost him so much.  
  
“Excellent,” Francesca says briskly, standing. “I could use some help right now.”  
  
She puts him to work outside in the garden. It’s not delicate labour either, she has him till the soil and dig new beds. She asks him casual questions the entire time and Steve finds it easier to answer with the physical purpose to distract him. He keeps Bucky, Peggy and Tony tucked carefully close.  
  
His spade hits a bundle of roots hiding under the rich earth and slices it cleanly in half. “I think I killed your… purple.”  
  
Francesca looks over. “Don’t dwell on it, morning glories are annuals. I’ll have to plant them again next spring anyway.”  
  
“They die every year?”  
  
“Not all of them. The perennials you only need to plant once and they’ll regrow provided the conditions are right. The annuals only live one season, they don’t survive the first frost.”  
  
Steve thinks of the barren ice where nothing grows. “Then why plant them?”  
  
“Because they’re beautiful and I don’t demand much more than that from my flowers.” She plucks one without remorse. “Gardens are life-long projects that require constant maintenance. There’s the weeding, tilling, watering, replenishing the soil. Choosing the right flowers for the right conditions. When to plant what in whose shade, but if you do it right… it all grows together.”  
  
Steve looks out over Francesca’s garden at the colours exploding in sequence. _Green, blue, purple, violet, magenta, black, orange, yellow, red, pink, white, teal_ -  
  
She catches his gaze. “That’s the way it’s supposed to work.” A car driven by Penelope Nirin pulls into the drive to pick him up. “Next week the real work starts,” there’s a twinkle in Francesca’s eye, “you haven’t seen the backyard garden yet. It’s terribly overgrown.”  
  
Steve laughs. It catches him by surprise. There’s dark dirt under his fingernails and a red sunburn across his neck. “Putting me to work is cruel, I’m older than you are.”  
  
“Oh my darling man,” Francesca smiles, too kind and sad by halves, “of course you’re not.”  
  
Steven Grant Rogers is ninety-six years old. He has lived twenty-eight years.  
  
————————

Things _shift_ or maybe it’s Steve who gradually falls back into phase with the world. He sits in the map room with its rotating holographic globe and stares at the bright band of Accords blue. He feels a twinge of guilt as Maldecia spins by, ten months removed from the typhoon and recovering slowly. If Steve is still bound to the Compound by legalities then he has to figure out how to reintegrate in other ways.  
  
“FRIDAY, what language do they speak in Maldecia?” He had no idea when Tony asked him before.  
  
The answer, as it turns out, is a dialect of Spanish. He throws himself into learning it and his poorly-pronounced attempts fall flat in an empty room. It’s frustrating and slow-moving and Steve’s not the only one who thinks so. FRIDAY hits her breaking point one Thursday afternoon and starts correcting him in a rapid Irish-lilted, flood of Spanish.    
  
“ _Lo siento, Lo siento, Lo siento,_ ” Steve chants, rolling the words around his mouth until he understands the feel of them.  
  
She makes him repeat it until his accent is perfect.  
  
_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -_  
  
And then they move on.  
  
——————————  
  
The first night he can’t sleep he doesn’t try to find Tony. He doesn’t end up uninvited in the North Wing either. He wanders through the very back of the living quarters until he finds himself knocking on an unfamiliar door.  
  
“I can’t sleep,” Steve says when it swings open.  
  
Vision cocks his head. “I don’t sleep.”  
  
“I know.” In the dead of night when Steve had thought himself alone, Vision was awake just down the hall. He holds up a battered box. “I brought Scrabble.”  
  
Vision may not know how to sleep but he’s learning to smile just fine.  
  
Not everything goes so well. It turns out the legal quagmire of Captain America doesn’t just disappear when Steve starts reaching out. The African and European Unions want nothing to do with him. Signing the Accords are the only way he’s going to be cleared to go into half those countries and he still can’t bring himself to do it.  
  
“I can’t sign my name to something I don’t believe in.” It’s as simple as that.  
  
“Good man,” Penelope says. She’s been trying to repeal the Accords since their inception. Across from her, one of Tony’s lawyers rolls her eyes.  
  
They’re not really Steve’s or Tony’s. Captain America and Iron Man are just convenient touchstones for viewpoints a dozen international law graduates are perfectly capable of expounding on their own. Across the conference table Tony looks like he wants to say something but he bites it back. Their petty skirmishes don’t end in sex or violence or airports getting destroyed anymore. They just end with ugly words that linger without the rush of adrenaline or endorphins to disperse them.  
  
When Natasha goes to Amsterdam to visit Wanda, Steve sees her off in the hangar at her request. She looks him up and down, calculating. Then she steps close and wraps her arms around his neck. It feels like the hug from a ghost, transient and unsubstantial, but more than you ever thought you’d get again. Steve tries not to cling, not to grab more than is freely given. It’s how he almost drowned Tony.  
  
Natasha doesn’t hug people these days. It feels like goodbye.  
  
“You’re coming back, right?” Steve tries to cover his apprehension.  
  
Her shorter hair highlights her cheekbones. “Would you still be here?”  
  
“Yes.” He doesn’t make the mistake of phrasing it like a promise. He doesn’t guess how she knows he ran.  
  
She hasn’t answered his original question and her forthright stare dares him to ask again. “Trust me, Steve. Don’t wait up.”  
  
He tries but dread takes root deep.    
  
—————  
  
Steve opens his door to find Tony in the hallway. He’s leaning casually against the wall Steve drove his head into after Rhodes left eight months ago, the night he sought Steve out; furious and lost and incapable of asking for comfort. The present version of Tony seems perfectly put together but Steve has to avert his eyes until the afterimage fades. Reminders persist; triggering an avalanche of phantom sensation followed by shame wrapped up in regret.

“News?” Steve asks.  
  
“Barnes is getting better,” Tony says slowly.  
  
“Yeah. He and Tanaka were telling me.”  
  
Tony nods and squints as he stares down the hall. “The UN’s shrinks were here yesterday, I peeked at the report. The psychological triggers have faded below threshold, they’ll approve downgraded security if Barnes wants to leave.”  
  
Bucky already told Steve all this this morning. He could barely contain his enthusiasm about reintegrating into the world beyond Avengers Compound. Monitored of course. But freedom without the threat of being hunted or turning hunter. Bucky’s safe, the UN’s satisfied, Tanaka’s onboard… This is all good news for everyone, none of which explains what Stark’s doing here until -  
  
Tony’s stare is frighteningly even. He’s not wearing socks or shoes.  
  
Steve slams the door to his room and steps into the hall. “That’s why you’re here?” he hisses angrily.  
  
“Why not?” Tony’s smile is dazzling and insincere.  
  
“Take your pick! It didn’t help, we ended up lying to everyone, I can’t imagine Kovalchyk had anything good to say about it, and _we said we wouldn’t_.”  
  
“Well it’s a good thing neither of us break promises,” Tony says, words dripping in sarcasm. “So it’s definitely not because you’re convinced I’ve turned myself into an abomination and you can’t stand to touch me.”    
  
“ _No_. It’s because _I hurt you_ and you _let me hurt you_. I won’t do that again. I don’t trust myself to deal with you and I don’t trust you to stop me.” Steve leans back against the wall. “The whole time I thought we were _fine_. I judged us that badly. That’s…” _Unforgivable_.  
  
Tony rolls his eyes. “Martyring yourself on the altar of my questionable choices isn't a good look. Not all of us are repressed and pining, one of us is me. I know what I like. Getting pushed up against walls by built blonds who need a little stress relief? Absolutely A-okay.” He smiles wickedly. “If you want proof I’m sure I could dig up some of the footage from the Founder’s Gala…”  
  
Steve’s ears are filled by a dull roar and Tony grins wider. It’s the exact reaction he was aiming to induce.

He starts with the top two buttons of his shirt. “Yes or no?”  
  
If Steve says nothing there’s no doubt Tony will strip naked in the hallway. Another performance, another stab at instigation, all of which means _nothing_ because, “I can’t be bought, Stark.”  
  
Steve hasn’t called him by his last name in months. Tony’s eyes narrow and he drops the act pretty damn quick. “Of course you can, Rogers. I bought you.”  
  
“No, you didn’t. I told you that wasn’t what I thought - ”    
  
“I’m well aware I wasn’t the primary enticement, I meant Barnes. I gave your buddy access to the best, most technologically advanced psychiatric care in the world and you stayed for him. And now he’s free to go.”

Tony’s certain Steve is _gone_ because he’s got what he wanted: Bucky cured and free. Tonight is just a panicked attempt to convince him there’s something in it for him if he stays.

Steve’s anger crumbles to pity. “Bucky’s moving out, he told me this morning. You can’t stop him.” Tony winces. “He’s leaving, I’m not.”  
  
“Excuse me for thinking you’d follow.”  
  
“He doesn’t need me. He has Tanaka. And Nat. He likes her.”  
  
“And you’re okay with that? The man you’ve been in love with since the 40s swanning around with a woman called the Black Widow?”  
  
“I’ll deal with it. Bucky’s moved on and believe it or not, I can keep a secret.”  
  
Tony snorts. “Too late for that. He knows.”  
  
Steve’s heart falls through the floor.  
  
Tony sees his stricken face. “Not about you and me but, _Christ_ Steve, why did you think he was always so guilty around you? He knows he can’t repay you the way you want. I didn’t tell him, he just knows.”  
  
“How?” Steve struggles to get the word out.  
  
“Best guess? In no particular order: France, Washington, Romania, Berlin, Siberia, your planned one-man invasion of Belgium… You turned yourself in to join him and you’ve spent the entire time you’ve been here inserting yourself into his rehabilitation any way you can. You’re not subtle when you care.”  
  
Steve had carried that secret for years, cradled it desperately close, bled for it, killed for it, only to have it dissolve at Tony’s words like a sugar cube in the rain. It turns out it was never a secret at all. Bucky always knew how much Steve cared just like Tony’s convinced he knows how much Steve doesn’t. Stress relief for blonds who hate him.   
  
“I cared, Tony, even when - ”

“Natasha’s missing. She fell off the grid eight hours ago,” Stark interrupts abruptly.  
  
Steve swallows down the words Tony’s not ready to hear.  
  
Tony huffs. “Before she left she told me to trust her which would be hilarious if I could afford to laugh.”  
  
“You’re talking to her again.”  
  
“She runs the Avengers. I don’t just mean the team, a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff too. I can’t do it all by myself, so… Natasha. Round Five of the Black Widow vs the Idiot.”  
  
“She likes you.” Tony’s expression is flatly disbelieving. “She warned me the whole time not to hurt you. I didn’t listen. There was yelling.”    
  
“I think I got the same speech in reverse except mine was pretty much all yelling.”  
  
Steve’s voice sobers. “She almost died.”  
  
“Yeah. I nearly killed the Turkish soldier who shot her. He took twin repulsors to the chest. I didn’t even think about it, FRIDAY set the blast to concussive without my say.” Tony taps his foot. “Not my finest hour. Doc had a field day.”  
  
Steve smiles, imagining the workshop littered with Kovalchyk’s copious cups of tea.  
  
Tony catches him. “It’s not comforting that you get along with my shrink, Rogers.”  
  
“You trust him.”  
  
“With some of it.”  
  
“You can trust Nat with her part. She loves the Avengers. She’ll come back.”  
  
Tony throws him a look. “There’s a decent chance we’ll never see her again. She might be on a beach with Barton, or Bruce. Or Fury. I’m more upset she’s stolen my 10 million dollar jet. For peace-of-mind reasons I don’t like to be missing more than one of those at a time.”  
  
“She’s coming back.” Steve’s voice is steadfast.  
  
“Tokyo is beautiful in the summer.”  
  
“Tony…”  
  
“ _So much faith_ ,” Tony says like it’s a failing. “So you’re not leaving, I’m not drinking, and Natasha’s coming back.” His expression is wry. “Want to bet on how long we last?”  
  
“I’m going anywhere,” Steve repeats stubbornly. “I’m not leaving _you_.”  
  
He means the words to be a comfort but they hit like a blow. Tony shakes his head, agitated again. “What makes this time different, Rogers? Don’t say _house arrest_. Nothing’s changed.”  
  
Steve draws a steadying breath. “I have.”  
  
“Mister I’m-an-old-man-and-I-won’t-change-for-anyone.”  
  
Steve steps closer and the gold undersuit crawls up the vee of Tony’s throat as a protective measure or a warning or both.  
  
“I’m not so old I can’t learn from my mistakes. I’m not leaving.”  
  
He can tell from the glassy look in Tony’s eyes that he doesn’t believe him and Steve can’t do anything about it. He can’t point to his track record or his good word. He can’t lie and say he’s happy, or that everything’s working. He just has to wake up every morning and _stay_. And day by day he does.  
  
Natasha comes back with the jet, alone and a little worse for wear. She gives Steve a slight nod but marches straight down to Tony’s workshop. The metal doors slide open and poised at the threshold, she hesitates (and the Black Widow never hesitates) before she disappears inside. Steve never learns more and neither deign to tell him.  
  
It’s still hard when a bunch of lawyers look at Steve like he’s a particularly dumb animal or once Bucky moves out and their visits drop off or when Francesca’s granddaughter takes ill but the last week of August he brings a black tulip back from Francesca’s cottage and plants it outside his windowsill. It’ll bloom next spring and Steve wants to be around to see it.  
  
_I’m not leaving._  
  
It’s a promise to himself.  
  
——————————

He goes back to one of art’s first principles: drawing what you see and not what you know. The figures he sketches are incomplete but honest: people as they are and not as he wishes them to be. Tony’s face is drawn and lined, Nat’s is lost and contemplative, Bucky’s subdued but content. Steve’s not in practice enough that he can change their expressions without losing the essence of who they are.  
  
It is an exercise in learning to love truth over beauty.  
  
——————————  
  
Every time he visits Francesca he brings flowers back from her garden. He gives them away to gas station clerks or diner waitresses. Some end up in the North Wing on Tanaka’s desk, others are gifted to Kovalchyk when Steve passes him late at night in the halls. The ones that avoid those fates end up in the kitchen in a glass of water. One night Steve finds the flowers neatly rearranged, stems cut, in a vase and he smells the old familiar scent of the sea. Rhodes is alone in the living room despite it being a Thursday all of which means -  
  
“Pepper’s back,” Rhodes says.  
  
The string at Steve’s core tightens and he doesn’t know why. He’d never begrudge Tony his own reconciliation. “Tony must be happy.”  
  
“He is,” Rhodes checks his watch, “but he’s also about to tell her he injected himself with an untested experimental virus and that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what needs to come out tonight.” He eyes Steve in a way which leaves no doubt that _Steve_ is going to be one of those revelations. “You might want to steer clear.”  
  
“Ready to go?” Sam walks in. “You should come Cap, we’re going for beers at the Duck.”  
  
Sam still calls him _Cap_. Steve doesn’t know the words that will make him stop. “I can’t leave.”    
  
Rhodes and Sam share a look. Then Sam claps Steve on the back. “Grab your coat, you’ve been requisitioned for an important Avengers meeting. Don’t wait for the Colonel to make it an order.”  
  
“I’m under house arrest.”  
  
Rhodes shrugs on his coat. “And I’ve decided to celebrate my last week of interim Team Leadership with a reckless abuse of power. I’m granting you an off-base pass. Let’s roll.”  
  
“That’s - ”    
  
Rhodes spins a set of keys around his finger. “Tony lent me the Maserati on the condition I use it to ‘have no fun whatsoever’ and say something nice at his funeral if Pepper kills him.”  
  
Steve stares toward the elevators as if he could see through them. Pepper being back means the bubble Steve shared with Tony has well and truly collapsed. Tony loved her - loves her still. It’s an ugly realization; how little of the real Tony Steve ever had to begin with and how frightened he is to lose the last inch of it anyway. He has no right. It should never have been him. It should always have been Pepper.    
  
Rhodes looks at him with concern and his tone softens. “They’ll be fine, Steve. Pepper knows who Tony is. We’re just giving them a night to themselves to have it all out, yeah?”  
  
Steve doesn’t understand but, “You’re the expert.”  
  
“Damn straight. How do you think I swung the car?”  
  
The bar is nearly empty when they arrive and even emptier by the time they leave. The scene that greets Steve when they return is comfortable and intimate. Pepper’s curled up on the couch asleep, her jacket tucked under her head, red hair streaming, her feet nestled in Tony’s lap while he taps on a tablet. It’s a gentle reminder of things he and Tony never had.  
  
“You’re back,” Tony says quietly, trying not to wake her. He looks tired and lighter and like maybe he thinks it’s a minor miracle every time Steve returns.  
  
Steve tosses him the keys. “Jim and Sam were in no condition to drive.”    
  
On cue both men walk in having a loud argument about football. They spot Pepper and comically lower their voices before Rhodes slumps, happily drunk, on Tony’s other side.  
  
“I hate the Patriots - ‘specially Brady.”  
  
Tony’s eyes swing from Steve to Rhodes. “I know Platypus, I hate them too. Mostly on your behalf and only a bit because I have to constantly hear how much you hate them.”  
  
“That’s why I love you, Tones.” Rhodes’s head falls back against the couch to stare at the ceiling. “That and the Maserati.”  
  
“And the suit, the braces, the jet, my charming and humble personality - “  
  
“ - your delusional self-assessment - ”  
  
“Why honey-cakes, you’d say such a thing to your sugar daddy?”

Rhodes smiles the sort of smile men get when they know life is good. “The important part is that you and I could totally kick Sam’s Pats-loving ass.”    
  
Sam objects. “Two-vee-one? Not cool, man. I get Steve.”  
  
They’re not actually going to fight, the drunk banter means nothing, but the talk of teams and recruitment and drawn lines is too much for Steve to handle sober. He’s too sensitive to it and when he dares a glance at the sofa Tony is -  
  
Grinning. Like a madman, or at the very least like a man content to be exactly where he is; stuck between his best friend’s drunk ranting and the sleeping form of the woman he loves. Tony was never Steve’s. Tony was his own, and Pepper’s, and Rhodey’s, and -      
  
Suddenly Steve feels lighter too.  
  
Sam turns to him. “I can’t believe we regularly trust the planet to these assholes.”  
  
Steve can only answer truthfully. “They’re the best we can do.”  
  
Sam shakes his head in exaggerated mourning as Steve steers him out of the common room. The last thing he sees as he retreats is Rhodes’s head tipping onto Tony’s shoulder followed by Stark’s hushed complaining.  
  
“You smell like the floor of my freshman dorm. How on Earth are you _sticky_?” An exasperated sigh. “I was never this sloppy when I was tanked.”  
  
Pepper’s voice floats down the hallway, sleep-thick and affectionate.

“Oh no, you were much worse.”    
  
——————  
  
The North Wing gym is being emptied a piece at a time. They’re in the process of moving Bucky to an offsite apartment but Steve still visits, a habit he can’t seem to shake even when Bucky’s not here.

Tonight Natasha is.  
  
“I didn’t know you came down here,” Steve says softly.    
  
She’s standing stock still in the middle of the room. “I was visiting the North Wing well before you. Why did you think I had night access to give you in the first place?”  
  
“Was anyone _not_ secretly visiting Bucky?”  
  
“He never knew I was here. Not at the beginning. I needed to know how much he remembered.” She frowns. “Then I needed to find out how much I remembered.”  
  
It’s why she left and wasn’t sure she’d come back. Steve knows a secret when he hears one and he knows to Natasha they’re worth their weight in gold. He gives her one back. “I miss you. More than Clint or Wanda sometimes because you’re _right here_ and we don’t… I miss it. Spending time with you. Planning missions. Having dinner. Training.”  
  
Natasha’s lips twitch, betraying the beginnings of a smile. She steps onto the mats, discards her sweater, and starts warming up her arms. She raises an eyebrow at Steve in invitation. The last time Steve laid hands on someone in violence he took Tony to the ground. The time before that he lost to Bucky on those exact mats. He has to rewind a long time before it’s a villain on the other side and not a teammate, or a police officer, or a friend.  
  
The Avengers are fliers these days so, “Who do you usually train with?”  
  
“Tony.” She plants her hands on her hips at Steve’s surprise. “Out of the suit he’s not much of a challenge.”  
  
“Harsh.”  
  
Her green eyes are lit by a spark. “Do you think you can do better?” The last time Natasha should have fought him, she let him walk away instead.  
  
Steve feels his muscles loosen, tension bleeding out instead of ramping up. “I can try.”  
  
He’s out of practice and she takes him to the mat a dozen times. Punching a bag alone isn’t the same as fighting with a partner and she proves it to him over and over again. The Black Widow is an expert in hand-to-hand but it’s still embarrassing. He’s fast and strong but he can’t anticipate her moves like he used to. He’s forgotten and has to relearn.

“We should do this again,” Steve says. He hesitates to ask for more. “Maybe next Thursday? Or Tuesday? I know you’re busy.”    
   
“Tuesdays and Thursdays both,” Natasha says easily like the past year never happened. “I’ll make time.”  
  
The Black Widow knows better than to make promises but she keeps this one just the same.  
  
——————  
  
Bucky’s basement apartment is small and cramped. His neighbours are ex-SHIELD agents. He has an outpatient schedule taped to the wall and a mattress on the floor. Steve knows Tony offered more but Bucky declined. On the coffee table is a cardboard box containing an array of brown envelopes standing at attention; all unaddressed, all unsealed. Bucky doesn’t try to give them away anymore but he still writes them. It’s what the dead deserve. Steve knows he’d find Howard and Maria Stark among them.  
  
Bucky visits Steve now instead of the other way around. Twice a week he has meetings with his lawyers at the Compound. He never brings up Steve’s feelings and he never acts any differently. They soldier on.  
  
Steve deliberately knocks Bucky’s shoulder and the basketball sails well wide of the backboard.  
  
“Cheat,” Bucky accuses in derision.  
  
“You’re touchy when you’re losing.”  
  
Steve wins by six points and learns to content himself with the miracle he has.  
  
———————  
  
“Show me.”  
  
“We’ve already done _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_ ,” Tony says but he steps aside and lets Steve enter. Every surface of the workshop is covered with contraptions and marvels built by Tony’s own two hands.  
  
“I meant the armour. Explain it to me.”

“You don’t give me orders, Cap, especially not here.”  
  
It’s easy to talk to Francesca but in the real world Steve struggles to get what’s inside of him out without distorting it beyond recognition. “I’m worried about you and your… upgrade. You keep telling me I shouldn’t be. It would help if I knew more.”  
  
“Or you could just trust me,” Tony says darkly.  
  
“I just want to understand.”  
  
“Don’t take this personally but I don’t know if I can dumb down advanced nanotech and solid state physics that far.”  
  
“Not the science. **_You_**.” It’s carved from his chest. “I want to understand why you would… You said it made you _better_.”  
  
Tony contemplates him and then shakes his head. “You’ll hate it - you already hate it - and let’s be clear: you have no say in what I decide to do to myself.”  
  
Steve’s voice is hoarse. “At least I’ll know what I’m hating.”  
  
Tony’s right; Steve does hate it, but he holds tight to Tony’s wrist as the metal flows out and coats their joined hands in a layer of gold before receding to Stark’s alone. The gold feels alien, slick and suffocating, but that’s not the revelation: it’s that Tony’s skin doesn’t feel different at all. It’s still warm and tan. Still surprisingly ticklish. Steve has spent the last year cataloguing Stark in excruciating detail and this upgraded version matches him identically.  
  
He’s still Tony. A whirling mess of brilliance and catastrophe. He hasn’t changed and even knowing Tony would take that as an insult, Steve is relieved.  
  
It’s a neat trick: to change and not-change at once.  
  
“ _Now you know and knowing is half the battle,_ ” Tony says in that tone that means he’s referencing something.  
  
Steve has no idea what it is. There’s truth in it though: _knowing_ is the first step. He stokes all his courage for one more question:  
  
“Tony…” Stark turns, oblivious to what’s coming, and the words rush out, “What did you see in the stars?”  
  
——————  
  
One night on impulse Steve takes the burlap sack out from under his bed and washes the blood off the shield. He leans it against his dresser so it’s the first thing he sees every morning and every morning it stings like running water over an open wound.  
  
The shield is still damaged but it’s no longer bloody.  
  
Every morning it hurts less and less.  
  
——————

He sits on Francesca’s screened-in porch and watches the rain fall, soaking into the black dirt of the garden. He lets the faint soothing rhythm wash over him. A heavy shower: the flowers will love it. Steve does too. After a session he always sits on the porch for a few minutes to collect himself. It gives him time to process his thoughts and frustrations before one of the few people who know about Francesca picks him up and drives him back to the Compound. Today he’s waiting for Tony and Tony is, predictably, late.  
  
A sportscar a violent shade of robin’s egg blue pulls up through the curtain of rain and Steve watches as Tony dashes from the car without an umbrella. It’s not far to the safety of the porch but it’s enough for the warm rain to soak him through to the skin anyway. Steve holds the screen door open and hopes the amused smile on his face is interpreted as the fondness it is.  
  
“Where’s Thor when you need him,” Tony grumbles, water dripping from his hair.  
  
“Thanks for coming,” Steve says instead.  
  
“You called, I came,” Tony says casually like he’s unaware of the significance of that. He looks around at the decor; the wicker furniture and portraits of flowers. “You going to tell me why I’m rescuing you from what are clearly the clutches of a little, old lady?”  
  
One of the conditions Penelope Nirin bargained for was Steve’s privacy. He’s not an Avenger so there was no reason for any of them to know but he’s realizing that Francesca isn’t a secret he needs to keep. “I’ve been seeing her for three months now.”  
  
Tony picks up one of Francesca’s walking canes with a raised eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”  
  
Steve takes a deep breath. “Therapist.”  
  
Tony’s grin falls off his face and his expression shuts down. Steve doesn’t know where the conversation’s gone wrong but it certainly has.  
  
“Really?” Tony hisses in a low voice. “You invited me here for couple’s counselling? Is there something about me that screams _ambush me with emotional shit_ because that’s worked out so well for us in the past - ”  
  
“That’s not - ” Steve tries to get himself back to what he’d planned.  
  
“ - I won’t - “  
  
“Tony. _Stop_.” To his surprise Tony does. “I didn’t invite you here for anything to do with talking. I just needed a ride and I thought it was time you knew.”  
  
Tony’s eyeing him warily, like there’s still a chance Steve’s about to feed him to Francesca.  
  
Steve keeps talking. “I found out you were getting help by accident. I thought I owed you the courtesy of telling you I’m getting help too.” He places a glass of Francesca’s homemade lemonade on the edge of the table as a peace offering.  
  
Tony hesitates for a second before he grabs it and drops into the wicker armchair. “If it’s _quid pro quo_ do I get to accuse her of being a Hydra agent and then ambush her because I think she’s going to kill Rhodey?”  
  
“She ever steals tea from your kitchen you’re welcome to try.”  
  
Tony laughs and Steve remembers how easily that used to happen. “Tough old bird, eh?”  
  
“Francesca,” Steve corrects. “Her name is Francesca.”  
  
“That’s a mouthful.”  
  
“You’re being very judgemental, Anthony.”  
  
Tony pulls a face. “Don’t start. Doc won’t stop and if he wasn’t helping me I’d sue him for slander.”  
  
For a minute there’s nothing but the sound of the rain and Steve’s words are almost lost underneath. “I just wanted you to know: _I’m trying_. With help.”  
  
Six months ago revealing a vulnerability felt like giving away one of the few things that still belonged to him. That’s not the way sharing works. It feels like a massive revelation but Tony takes it in stride. He just nods and rests his head on the back of the chair, closing his eyes. He used to do that a lot: fall asleep draped over whatever piece of furniture was nearest - a residual product of science binges and a lifetime of living alone. Being safe enough to fall asleep around was something Steve didn’t realize he was missing until he got it back.  
  
His stomach grumbles loudly. “I - uh,” he starts, embarrassed, as Tony’s eyes reopen, “I was wondering if you wanted to stop for dinner on the way back.”  
  
Tony carefully weighs what an hour more with Steve is worth. “I don’t have time.”  
  
Steve lets the disappointment wash over him and retreat again. It doesn’t stick to his ribs like it used to. “Alright.”  
  
“I’ll take a rain check: you don’t have time either. Little Ross is in town so to punish him Vision’s making Korean BBQ. Everyone’s been summoned to suffer through it to make the charade seem plausible. We need your iron constitution to take one for the team.”  
  
Steve is bemused. Most of the team likes Everett. “Who set that up?”  
  
“It started as a joke, I swear, but I wasn’t going to suffer alone so we’re all committed now.”  
  
_We_ is everyone who can make it to the Compound. Bucky and Nat. Tony and Rhodey. Vision. Sam. Pepper, maybe. And Steve. It’s everyone available and yet…  
  
“Have you heard from anyone else?” Steve asks, trying not to betray how desperately he wants the Avengers complete.  
  
Tony doesn’t like to talk about the missing either. “Not a peep from Bruce since he ran off with my jet and my science buddy. Nothing from Thor either but I thought maybe he’d try you first?” Steve shakes his head and Tony sighs, “I ran into Lang dressed as a waiter in New York. And Clint was stalking me for awhile.”  
  
Steve eyes widen. “When?”  
  
“Lang was before Christmas. I don’t know for sure if it was Clint but someone kept following me to meetings and shooting at me with the arrows I designed for him. Anyway, Natasha didn’t seem concerned when I told her someone was taking pot shots at me, so either she hates my guts or it was Clint.”  
  
“He tried to kill you?” Steve’s voice is dead serious.  
  
“No, if it was Hawkeye he was definitely missing on purpose.”  
  
“Maybe he was following someone else at the meetings. Ross or one of the lawyers.” That’s the type of thing Clint and Natasha would set up: one working from the inside, one from the outside.  
  
Tony taps his glass of lemonade on the table and hesitates. “They weren’t those kinds of meetings, Cap.”  
  
The Compound is dry. _The Sitting Duck_ (and what a terrible name) has become the unofficial Avengers hangout for when they need a beer. It’s so normal now that it’s difficult to remember that Tony’s sobriety didn’t come easily. Steve can’t get drunk regardless of how many drinks he has. Tony can’t have one for the flood that follows.    
  
“He did end up saving me from an actual assassination attempt though, so maybe Clint was aiming to be reassuring by _just_ missing me all those times.” Tony’s life is insane. “I picked up the _weirdest_ security detail this year.”  
  
“The kid from Queens?” Steve guesses.  
  
“Not him,” Tony says too sharply. “Don’t look at me like that, Rogers. He’s alive. He’s fine. Confused and awash in teenage hormones. He’s just a little too busy being a supervillain magnet to follow me around.”  
  
Tony sounds sincere enough but there’s an underlying thread that Steve only hears when Tony’s yelling about Bruce. Like he’s desperate for him to come back but showing it might kill him.  
   
“We have to get them all together one day. Everyone we can,” Steve says as he turns to Tony and hopes the sincerity reaches him. “A pancake breakfast, maybe.”  
  
“Good thinking, it’ll be easier to poison all of us that way.”  
  
“We won’t have Vision cater,” Steve amends. He thinks of impossible meetings. “Maybe for Christmas.”  
  
Tony walks to the edge of the porch to stare suspiciously up at the clouded sky. “We’re going to need them all for what’s coming. And more.”  
   
“Bruce and Thor will come back.”  
  
There’s a hesitation in Tony’s shoulders before he shrugs which Steve knows that means Tony’s allowed himself to _hope_. “Natasha’s clearly already in contact with Clint.”  
  
“T’challa and Shuri will help.”  
  
“The Wakandans in general.”  
  
“Wanda.”  
  
“Strange and Wong.”  
  
_“Who?”_  
  
Tony smirks in malicious glee. “You’re going to hate him, I can’t wait.”  
  
Steve pauses. “Bucky too, if he’s up for it.”  
  
“We’ll have to arm him. Get it? Arm - “  
  
“Got it, Tony.”  
  
“Antman and Wasp will jump at the chance if you go recruit them. They’re not too keen on me.”  
   
Steve’s eyes narrow. “I think you’re making some of these people up.”  
  
“Nope. Lang has a girlfriend. They’re going for theme naming. They think it’s cute. C’mon, who else?”  
  
“Fury. Maria Hill. Whatever’s left of SHIELD.”  
  
It’s Tony’s turn to pause. “Coulson.”  
  
“Wait, Agent Coulson? You’re kidding.”  
  
“No. Fury’s a real bastard when he wants to be.”  
  
Steve stands next to Tony as the patter of rain slows. “It’ll be enough for what comes. We’ll be enough.”  
  
Steve can tell Tony doesn’t quite believe it. They’ve all grown too accustomed to standing alone or divided, and Tony’s shouldered it better than most. Expanding the Avengers is a necessity to him but Steve’s wants to make sure it’s a reward too. That what is rebuilt can stand without them because the foundation is sound, and since Steve is not an engineer he needs to find other ways to help.  
  
They let him review the Avengers’ mission footage now, afterward when he can still give tactical notes. He’s Nat’s primary training partner and she’s passed word down that all fliers have to be proficient in hand-to-hand so Steve’s putting that together too. Penelope and the pack of wolves she calls her team have set to work on an agreement for Wanda to rejoin the Avengers provided she remains a resident and citizen of the Netherlands. Last week Steve videocalled T’challa directly about the Accords and His Royal Highness was not very kingly when he shared his thoughts on Steve’s beard.     
  
Sometimes when Steve gets up for his early morning run he finds Kovalchyk in the kitchen rummaging around for tea. He plays Scrabble with Vision over dinner these days because with Steve’s schedule filling up he sleeps through the night. He watches as Tony goes to galas with Pepper and comes back from galas with Pepper. His Spanish is still atrocious. It’s driving FRIDAY insane.  
  
Outside, the rain’s stopped. They leave the porch and the dark soil is absorbent and alive under Steve’s feet. The air is heavy and damp and clean. It tastes sweet, cleansed.  
  
“The Compound should have a garden.” Steve watches the plants recover from the downpour, resilient.  
  
“Why is everyone trying to make me garden? First Doc, now you.”    
  
Steve knows why Kovalchyk thinks plants would help Tony with his guilt. They helped Kovalchyk’s father deal with his but that’s not Steve’s secret to tell. “You don’t have to do anything. I will.”  
  
Tony looks at him skeptically and then shrugs. “It’s your home too. For however long it lasts.”  
   
Steve rescues a potted hydrangea from drowning and tries not to feel Tony’s eyes on him.  
  
Stark fidgets. “We’ll need you and your shield.”  
  
“You have them,” Steve says. Then he straightens. “We need you too. Not just Iron Man. You.” Tony won’t miss Steve’s use of the present tense.  
  
Steve looks out over the patchwork of colour and feels proud of something he helped grow with his own hands. It’ll all die soon. The frost will come, then the winter, then the spring, but if you plant well enough and deep enough everything comes full circle.  
  
“Hypothetically, if I asked someone to repair the shield, could they?”  
  
It’s not about a piece of metal. It never was.  
  
Tony looks away. “You’d probably be better off just asking T’challa for a new one. Vibranium is the strongest metal on earth, it takes quite a bit of force to dent it. You can’t just buff scratches out. The damage might be permanent.”  
  
Their damage. “So, _no_.”  
  
“I don’t think you understand how complicated it is.”  
  
Steve nods. He’s not entitled to this. “Might be good for her anyway,” he offers with a half-smile, “gives the old girl character. Scars.”  
  
“Don’t romanticize broken tools, Steve.” The name slips out unweighted and Tony's next words are careful. “I never said I wouldn’t try. One day. If you asked.”  
  
“Hypothetically.”  
  
“Hypothetically.”  
  
“Because you fix things.”  
  
“And I’m a masochist.” Tony saunters toward the car.  
  
Steve frowns. “No, you’re not. You don’t like being hurt.” He hesitates, ten paces behind. “I don’t like hurting either.”  
  
It took him too long to realize that about Tony, it occurs to him that maybe Tony doesn’t know that about him.  
  
“Breaking out the hard truths are we, Rogers?”  
  
The sarcasm lacks bite, it sounds more lightly deprecating than anything else. Steve wonders how much of that shift is in tone and how much is in interpretation. If the flaw exists in the object or in the eye of the beholder.  
  
He catches Tony by the arm and the gesture is casual; a prelude to nothing. Steve can’t articulate what’s inside of himself, the mess he has made of them, so he settles for pouring everything he can into two words. “Thank you.”  
  
A flood of emotions flicker behind Tony’s sunglasses. Steve only recognizes a few of them. He might never understand Tony well enough to recognize more. It might not matter. Tony tosses him the car keys anyway and slides into the passenger seat.

“Don’t crash us while I nap. Also I hope you know the way back because FRIDAY gives directions exclusively in Spanish now and I don’t know why.”  
  
“Maybe she’s just trying to teach you,” Steve suggests innocently enough.  
  
“It’s not working. Why did you think I was so late getting here?”  
  
Steve smiles. He can’t help it.    
  
Tony catches him. “I swear to God, if my AI is turning into an evil Mexican supervillain and you don’t tell me - “  
  
“FRIDAY wouldn’t do that. _FRIDAY es una buena chica_.”  
  
“Goddammit there’s two of you.”  
  
The engine erupts in a soft purr. “Go to sleep, Tony,” Steve says gently.  
  
Fitfully and slowly, Tony does and Steve drives them both home in Tony’s car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only ending I could think to write. One where Steve recognizes what he’s lost and what he’s never had and starts to rebuild something of his own. Tony gets sobriety, Rhodey and Pepper, and a version of Steve that he trusts to drive when he needs a rest. I will never not love the Steve-and-Tony recruitment scenes from the comics so that’s in there too. 
> 
> If you’re keeping track, Steve breaks every promise he makes save the last. Neither Tony nor Steve manage to actually keep a secret either: everyone knows they’re sleeping together, that Steve’s in love with Bucky, that he’s visiting the North Wing. Tony doesn’t manage to hide his bruised ribs, his dalliance at the gala, or Kovalchyk. Tony gives Steve the same speech in Chapter 5 that Natasha gives Tony in Chapter 2. Steve’s rants in Chapters 2 and 4 about abandoning your responsibilities in favour of wallowing in your own pain are, of course, peak hypocrisy given that’s exactly what Steve spends this entire story doing. 
> 
> Do not take horticultural or medical advice from this fic. There is no reason a western-Pacific country like Maldecia would speak Spanish. Secrets aren’t inherently bad. I have faith in Belgium. The psychiatrists in this story are way more eccentric than real ones would be but that’s sort of the point. No one dies, no one falls in love, and no one gets a long-winded apology. I warned you all from the beginning.
> 
> My outline of Tony’s version of the same year includes: punching Hank Pym, a trip to see Zemo, joining AA, getting stalked by Clint, sleeping with Tiberius Stone in a bid to see if all blonds who hate his guts are the same, ignoring most of Kovalchyk’s advice, getting kidnapped by Stephen Strange, setting up secret meetings underneath the UN, running into Fury in a graveyard, blasting Coulson out a window, hitting on a priest, and turning the entire city of Philadelphia against him. 
> 
> P.S. I may add a playlist chapter to this fic at some point so if it updates to six chapter at some point that’s what’s happening.


End file.
